


Kingstealer

by SharkAria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blackwater AU, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Canon-Typical Violence, Complete, Dark, Dark Humor, F/M, Gendrya in later chapters, Romance, arya pov, joffrey pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 78,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4121430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkAria/pseuds/SharkAria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and the Hound kidnap Joffrey during the Battle of Blackwater, intending to bring him to the King in the North.</p><p>Joffrey does not appreciate this.</p><p>COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forest, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A while back I read the short but fantastic pre-Blackwater AU [We'll Conquer Them All](http://archiveofourown.org/works/457133) by [Whirly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whirly/pseuds/whirly) that ended with Sandor kidnapping Joffrey. This fic picks up from where that idea left off. I prefer Sansa aged up into her late teens and that is how I wrote her abilities in this piece; Joffrey is also aged up. This is primarily but not solely book canon.
> 
> Warning: Joffrey thinks lots of revolting, violent thoughts in this piece. It is not worse than anything he actually does in canon (which, admittedly, is pretty damn bad), but some of it is still pretty gross.
> 
> Gendrya tag: There is plenty of slow burn Gendrya in the second and third parts of this story ("River" and "Sky"). If you clicked on this fic for this tag, I think you will enjoy it when you get there, but please be patient through the first part ("Forest"), which is exclusively SanSan.

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

“Time to come out, Your Grace.” The Hound’s muffled voice penetrates the thick, rough cloth shrouding Joffrey’s head. 

The fabric whips away and Joffrey inhales deeply, filling his lungs with the first fresh breath he’s had in what feels like hours. He nearly retches from the smell; acrid smoke from the wildfire permeates the air and his stomach still aches from where the Hound punched him and then slung him over the saddle of a horse in the middle of the night. As Joffrey’s eyes adjust to the early morning light, his sworn shield’s blurry silhouette comes slowly into focus, looming menacingly. Joffrey jerks away instinctively, terrified that the enormous man will strike him again. 

In his fear Joffrey momentarily forgets that his wrists and ankles are bound tightly with leather straps; his movement only causes him to flop over helplessly, and his face hits surprisingly soft earth. The ground is covered by dead leaves instead of the cobblestones he expected; he must not be in King’s Landing any longer. While he was half-conscious, the Hound must have spirited him much further away from the castle than he thought possible. Joffrey opens his mouth to scream for help, but his voice dies in his dry throat as sharp steel presses against his neck.

“Don’t even think about it,” the Hound growls. The disgraced warrior yanks the king to his feet, never removing the knife from its deadly position. “I don’t wish to lose such a valuable hostage, but I’ll not hesitate to slice you open if you try to escape. Understand?”

Scorching anger seeps through the chill of Joffrey’s fright. How could his very own sworn shield have gone from craven to traitor in mere hours? Joffrey was blindsided by the Hound’s cowardice during the battle, but he still cannot comprehend that the brute means to turn him over to the pretender Stannis.

“I said, do you understand me, _Your Grace_?” the Hound whispers, his voice like a sword scraping off a shield. He sticks the point of the dagger against Joffrey’s windpipe, and Joffrey feels blood drip down his neck and pool in the fabric of his ruined silk tunic. 

Vertigo washes over Joffrey, and the ghostly shadows of the trees in smoke-filtered light spin topsy-turvy across his vision; he is certain he will faint then and there. With great difficulty he swallows back the bile, and he nods his chin affirmatively.

“Good,” the Hound grunts and returns the knife to the scabbard in his boot. He turns around and jerks his head to the side. “Give him some water,” he mutters. 

A small pale face framed by a dark cloak peers out from around the Hound’s massive frame. Her hair is hidden by the hood, but the unmistakable blue eyes gaze anxiously at Joffrey.

 _No. This is impossible_ , Joffrey thinks, indignation tightening across his chest. Forgetting even the Hound’s presence, he hisses at the girl, “You traitor bitch! I’ll have your head --”

The back of the Hound’s gloved hand thwacks the side of Joffrey’s skull with a sickening crunch. As Joffrey flies across the clearing, his vision skews to the side and the browns and greens and greys of the forest swirl together, and he lands hard face down in the rotting leaves. He lays still and hears nothing but a loud ringing in the ear that took the brunt of the blow. As the ringing fades he breathes in a mouthful of detritus and spits it out along with a fair amount of blood. Still in shock, he wriggles into a sort of crouch. Pink-tinged saliva drips from his lips onto his filthy breeches. All the teeth on one side of his jaw feel as though they have been knocked loose.

“Don’t speak to her that way again,” the Hound remarks as casually as if he is commenting on the weather. “I told you to give him water,” he barks at the girl, then stalks off toward two grazing horses that Joffrey can just barely make out through the nausea and pain.

Sansa, the perfidious wench, creeps toward Joffrey as though approaching a wounded boar. She looks almost as scared as Joffrey feels. _She should be frightened. I will boil her alive after Grandfather’s army rescues me._

She leans down toward him, clutching a water skin in dirty fingers, not looking into his eyes. Her face is smudged with soot and and dark rings encircle her eyes. Color rises to her pale cheeks when her braid slips out from her hood and brushes against Joffrey’s shoulder. 

Regret surges through Joffrey. He should have put an arrow through her heart as all of the court looked on. He should have let the mob trample her to death in the streets. He should have flung from the top of the Tower of the Hand. 

“Please drink,” she urges quietly, her blue eyes finally meeting his. “It’s a long journey to where the King in the North makes camp.”

The Hound apparently overhears her, because he stops fiddling with the horse’s bridle to admonish her. “You needn’t say ‘please’ to _him_ , little bird.”

Joffrey glares over at his former bodyguard, then back to his former betrothed. So the two are planning to deliver him to the treasonous Stark heir. He should have realized it the moment he saw the little wolf bitch cowering behind the dog, but his anger overwhelmed him. Mother would reprimand him for such a mistake. He must pay more attention to his captors, so he can find a way to get free and exact his revenge.

Sansa gently places the tip of the water skin against Joffrey’s cracked lips. Joffrey imagines spitting the water back in her pinched little face, imagines her skull atop the Hound’s and the vile pretender Robb’s, all stacked up on a single spike. 

But all the bitter smoke in his lungs is mingling with the thick blood in his throat. He is so thirsty and his entire body feels dry, hollow. All except his eyes -- they are overflowing with white hot liquid rage. 

Joffrey opens his mouth and drinks. Tears of shame pour freely down his swollen face.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

A few hours later, a horsefly lands on the tip of Joffrey’s nose. He twitches and the filthy bug takes flight, buzzes maddeningly a few inches from his face, and alights in precisely the same spot as before. He twitches again. The offending insect flicks its wings and leaps up, makes a tight circle around Joffrey’s head, and returns to its perch. Joffrey thrashes about in the saddle to which his arms and legs are firmly lashed, where his wrists are tied to the pommel and his feet are strapped into the stirrups. The fly zips downward in a spiral, feints down toward the nag that Joffrey is riding, zigzags back up and plops down right between his eyes. The bloody rag stuffed in Joffrey’s mouth dampens his groan of frustration. 

“Quiet, boy,” the Hound snarls, turning around on his horse to narrow his eyes at his former master and current captive. Joffrey glares acid at the traitor, deciding then and there that he will burn the other half of the Hound’s face off. The Hound doesn’t seem to take note of Joffrey’s ire; he just digs his heels into his black stallion’s sides and the horse begins to trot, forcing Joffrey’s mount to follow along at a bumpy, quick clip.

The late afternoon sun glints off the streaks in the Hound’s armor in the few places that aren’t still sticky with blood from the previous night’s battle. His white Kingsguard mantle still adorns his shoulders, which Joffrey finds particularly galling given the extent of the dog’s betrayal.

Sansa, the two-faced little liar, sits astride the warhorse in front of the Hound wearing squire’s clothes and an ill-fitting boiled leather breastplate, with her cloak pulled up over her head in spite of the warm sun. When Joffrey catches a glimpse of her face, he expects her to appear afraid of her proximity to the Hound, but mostly she just looks tired and uncomfortable being crammed in the saddle and riding like a man. Joffrey would have taken great pleasure in her discomfort if were the one causing it. As it is, the coward and the traitor managed to kidnap the King of Westeros out of his own holdfast, yet in the chaos of the night, they were unable to steal enough horses to do the deed properly. Joffrey would laugh endlessly to hear such a tale if it happened to one of the Targaryens instead of to him. 

Just once, the girl dares to peek over the Hound’s massive arm in Joffrey’s direction. Joffrey catches her eye, attempting to discern her thoughts, but she immediately whips back around and shrinks against the Hound, as if trying to disappear from Joffrey’s sight. The Hound, in turn, adjusts the hood on her head and smooths the cloak down her arm and grumbles that she needs to keep that red hair of hers covered until they are further away from King’s Landing. 

Joffrey works hard to stay alert, not to let the sway of the horse lull him into a doze. All day he hopes that they will run into a garrison of Lannister men or a military scout, or even a village full of loyal smallfolk who might be able to help him escape. But the Hound is well trained in all aspects of warfare; he leads them through the thick, deep forest quickly and quietly, and they never even see another person. They cover enough distance that by the time the sun sets, Joffrey can no longer smell the smoke from the city. 

Sansa, for her part, does none of the annoying things that she did when they travelled south from Winterfell; that is, she doesn’t insist on stopping every twenty yards to make water or stretch her aching back or stupidly remark on some dull landscape. Joffrey was hoping that she would, and that her complaining would at least slow the three of them down; instead, she stays silent as a sept except when the Hound addresses her, and she only stops to crouch in the bushes or take a drink of water when the Hound rests the horses.

When it grows so dark that Joffrey can barely make out his kidnappers a few yards ahead, the Hound finally dismounts and decides to make camp for the night. He helps Sansa from the saddle and sets her onto the ground gently, then pulls Joffrey off with noticeably less care. After giving Joffrey a few minutes to choke down some stale bread, the Hound replaces Joffrey’s gag, ties him to a tree trunk that is surrounded by a thicket and covers him with a cloak. Joffrey can’t see much of anything after that, but he hears the Hound help Sansa settle down under some bushes nearby before going off to tend to the horses.

Joffrey is so sore and so tired that even the river of rage that roiled over him all day trickles away as his need for rest washes over him. He’ll think of a way to get back to his throne and take revenge on the Hound and Sansa tomorrow. Right now he just needs to sleep.

Just as he is drifting off, he realizes that he doesn’t even know whether or not his forces won the Battle of Blackwater. Does he still have a kingdom to rule?

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

The next morning, the Hound commands Sansa to give Joffrey bread and water while he’s still tied to the tree. Humiliated, Joffrey eats from her hand like a starving dog. The girl does her best to keep her skin from touching Joffrey’s lips, and he nearly curses the stupid worthless wench when she inevitably drops the food onto the ground. But he is so hungry that he just stares down desperately at the crust, willing Sansa to pick it up and give it back to him, which she finally does after courteously brushing the dirt off. 

That little indignity does not escape the Hound’s notice; he chuckles darkly. “Bit different than when we last traveled together, isn’t it, Your Grace?”

Joffrey pictures chopping off the Hound’s fingers and toes and making him eat them on the floor of the court. 

Perhaps the Hound can read his mind, because his guffaw turns into a throaty laugh. “Instead of shooting me and the little bird dirty looks on our whole journey, you should be practicing how to beg for your life when you kneel before the King of the North.” He snorts at his own joke, and glances at Sansa to gauge her reaction. The girl’s eyes widen and her cheeks flush pink, but she appears too flustered to join in the Hound’s mirth.

After the sorry excuse for a morning meal, the Hound ties Joffrey back into place on his horse. Mercifully, he leaves the gag off and gives Joffrey just enough play in the bindings on his hand so that he can help himself to a water skin tied about his wrists. “This isn’t out of charity,” the Hound explains. “It’s so that we waste less time stopping to let you drink. But remember what I said about opening your throat if you try to cry for help.”

The Hound directs Sansa to load the saddlebags with their provisions, which she does not do to his satisfaction, and he berates her sharply. 

Joffrey smirks gleefully. Perversely, it feels good for the Hound to be aiming his anger at somebody else, particularly toward girl with whom he has allied himself. Joffrey is pleased to note that while Sansa at least was worth her claim at court, she is clearly completely useless out here in the wilderness. 

Sansa’s eyes turn red, and she stifles a sob.

“None of that, girl,” the Hound growls, though some of the harshness has left his voice. “Crying won’t keep you alive out here. I won’t see you do it again.” He shoulders her out of the way and shows her how she should have balanced the weight across the haunches of the horse, and Sansa sniffles again. “Do it this way next time, and the three of us might yet make it in once piece to your brother.”

The girl nods, the wetness gone from her eyes, a look of determination replacing the unfallen tears. 

“And you,” the Hound rounds on Joffrey, who sits up in the saddle, rigid with fear. “I saw that little shit-eating sneer on your face. You’re only alive because of the girl. I would just as soon have left you to burn in King’s Landing with the rest of the fucking Lannisters.”

 _The wildfire should have burned you alive, turncoat,_ Joffrey thinks, but he forces himself to keep his face neutral. As prince and then king, he has never needed to hold back thoughts that others might deem offensive and it is almost physically painful to bear the shame of doing so, but he must bite back his feelings if he plans to survive being held hostage by the fiercest warrior in Westeros and the girl he tortured at court. _They will both suffer for my humiliation_ , he swears to himself.

The Hound helps Sansa onto the stallion, and together everyone rides for what feels like an interminable amount of hours, stopping only long enough for the horses to eat and rest and for Sansa to give Joffrey more food. Again they ride until the moon rises, and again the Hound lashes Joffrey to a tree and gags him. The night is colder than the previous one, and Joffrey wishes for another cloak. If the whole experience weren’t all so terrifying, and if he weren’t still in so much pain from the Hound’s fists and all the riding, Joffrey would have found the whole day tremendously boring.

 

*_*_*_*_*_*

The next several days and nights pass similarly to the first. Every so often, the Hound halts when he thinks he hears people traveling nearby, but he always hides their party well enough that Joffrey never sees anyone. He can’t take the risk of calling out to cutthroats or Stannis’s bannermen, especially not with the Hound’s sword always ready to separate his head from his shoulders. 

Gradually, Joffrey gives up on the idea of relying on external assistance and turns a more observant eye upon his kidnappers. Perhaps he can find a weakness and use it against them, like Mother would. He begins to spend all of his time watching the Hound and Sansa instead of the woods, waiting for them to reveal a flaw that will be the key to his escape.

For a few more days, very little changes. The woods stretch before them, thick and endless; the remaining bread keeps getting harder and staler; the water from the streams they follow tastes mossy and foul. Joffrey almost wishes that some thieves would show up just to break the monotony.

But one morning, after a particularly cold night when none of them get much sleep, Sansa dozes off in the saddle. Her head lolls back against the Hound’s breastplate and her hood slips from her head. Joffrey wants to laugh at how stupid she looks in her boy’s clothes, with her ratty peasant braid and her dirty face and her mouth slightly open, but by now he knows better. He presses his tongue against his loosest tooth, allowing the stinging pain remind him why he needs to escape and kill his tormentors.

The Hound shifts forward and adjusts his arms more tightly around Sansa, probably so that the little imbecile doesn’t fall to the ground. Again Joffrey fights the urge to smile at the image of the Stark girl getting trampled under the hooves of the Hound’s horse. But as Joffrey is biting down his lip, the Hound does something very queer. He leans his face down and brushes his nose against the crown of the girl’s head and sniffs her hair like a . . . well, like a hound. He reaches his gloved hand up to her temple and brushes the loose strands away from her face with a gentleness that Joffrey has never seen from the man he has always thought of as a ruthless killer.

Shortly thereafter, the girl jerks up and blinks the sleep from her eyes. The Hound straightens up in the saddle. “I hope that nap was refreshing. You’ll be taking first watch tonight,” he mutters grumpily. A corner of Sansa’s mouth turns up sheepishly, and Joffrey realizes it is the first time he has seen her smile on the journey; indeed, it is the first time he has seen her smile in as long as he can remember.

Joffrey spends the rest of the day turning the perplexing event over in his mind. Mother would know how to use this her advantage. He watches the Hound and Sansa even more closely than before.

That evening, when the Hound helps Sansa dismount, his hands linger on the girl’s hips. Sansa looks up at him and blushes, and the Hound, perhaps in embarrassment, pushes her away with more force than necessary. He stalks over to free Joffrey from his saddle.

Later that night, Joffrey sits propped against a boulder, huddling close to the fire that Sansa insisted the Hound finally make for them, as it has grown steadily colder. He chomps distractedly on some fresh berries that Sansa found by a stream earlier in the day and watches the traitors in the flickering light. Sansa is rethreading a leather thong on one of the saddlebags while the Hound sharpens his sword. The girl seems fully absorbed in her task, but the Hound won’t quit glancing over at her. As the fire dies down and the moon rises, the Hound stops glancing and starts staring. 

The realization hits Joffrey with the force of a tidal wave. The Hound desires the girl! Of course he does. It is shamefully obvious; Joffrey should have deduced it from the start. Why else would the brute be trying to gain favor with her brother? 

The concept that the Hound wants the girl swirls a mix of conflicting emotions within Joffrey. He is offended by the idea that his sworn shield has ever dared cast his eyes over his king’s highborn betrothed, even if she is a simpleton and a traitor. He is amused by the thought as well. It would have been truly glorious to hand the little idiot over to the man she most feared, had he not turned craven; nothing would have made Joffrey howl with greater glee than to see the horror-filled look in Sansa’s eyes when she comprehended the king meant to allow his dog to take her maidenhead. And finally, Joffrey feels confused. Does the Hound think it possible that Robb would hand his precious sister over to a middleborn Lannister turncloak? Perhaps the Hound is as dumb as the useless girl he wants.

Sansa rises, breaking Joffrey from his reverie, and excuses herself to go squat in the woods. The girl is ridiculously modest, walking far beyond the glow of the campfire because she’s afraid the two men will hear her fart. Joffrey hopes wistfully that a snake bites her when she has her pale proper little rump bared to the ground -- it would be more than the little two faced bitch deserves. In any case, he can tell that she is farther away than the Hound wants her to be -- the man’s face gets an even uglier-than-usual grimace denoting his anxiety -- but finally Joffrey understands that the Hound is afraid that his ‘little bird’ will fly off before he has the chance to hump her like the dog he is.

And suddenly, a plot springs into Joffrey’s mind. He knows what he can do to save himself. An anxious mania swells in his chest.

Joffrey steels himself as he calls to his former guard. “Hound, I must make water as well.”

The Hound rises and lumbers over to Joffrey, then pulls him to his feet and helps him shuffle toward the nearest tree. With hands that are clumsy as much from his bindings as from his nerves, Joffrey unlaces his breeches as the Hound stands off to the side. 

Joffrey must try his plan now; he probably won’t have the chance to talk to the Hound alone again until tomorrow night, and they could be much further from home by that point. “Hound,” he whispers in a voice that is barely louder than the trickle of his urine hitting the tree trunk. “I understand what you’re doing.”

The Hound doesn’t so much as blink. “Just figured out that we kidnapped you?” he replies gruffly.

“No --” he manages to bite off before he says, _you great buffoon,_ “The lady Sansa. You want her.” The Hound stands still as stone, does not so much as blink, but his Adam's apple bobs slightly. It is enough proof for Joffrey.

“Could be,” the Hound replies in affected boredom that does not fool Joffrey one bit. “Could be I just want safe passage into Robb’s camp when I drop you off for the ransom.”

“I saw you --” Joffrey starts out, accusatory, thinking of the pathetic, hopeless expression on the Hound’s face as he buried his hideous hooked nose in Sansa’s tangled hair. Hot shame washes over Joffrey as he thinks of his mistake over allowing such a weak, cock-enslaved animal to be his sworn shield. The mongrel has probably been slavering after her for months. The rage bubbles up and threatens to spill over, and Joffrey clamps a lid tight onto it just in time. _Not now, I must convince the dog to help me._ “I saw you smelling her. Touching her so tenderly when you helped her off the horse,” he spits out, unable to keep the contempt out of his voice.

The Hound shifts his weight, tries to look exasperated, but Joffrey has spent enough time with him to know that he standing alert. “You done pissing yet? Maybe the girl and I shouldn’t let you drink any water tomorrow.”

Joffrey’s vision begins to blur with anger over the Hound’s denial. _You want her, I saw it in your eyes, you miserable sad old fool, it is the only reason you would have done such an unconscionable thing as to kidnap me,_ he thinks petulantly.

Joffrey shakes and laces his breeches as quickly as he can, then turns toward the Hound with his wrists out in a conciliatory, cooperative gesture. “Take me back to King’s Landing and I’ll give her to you. All will be forgiven, you can come back a war hero and no one ever needs to know about this. You can marry her if you want, or just keep her in your quarters, use her however you wish, it makes no difference to me --”

The Hound’s enormous filthy bare hand clamps over Joffrey’s mouth and he is slammed bodily against the tree, pinned at the back of his head. The bark grinds into his scalp and the Hound’s palm tastes like dirt against Joffrey’s lips. The Hound brings his face down to Joffrey’s and his breath is hot and smells sour. “Or I could just bash in your head right now and leave your body to the wolves, and then I’d have the little bird all to myself without your _blessing_.” 

Ice freezes Joffrey’s guts. He has seen the Hound cave a man's head in -- has ordered him to do it, in fact -- and imagining his own head mauled that way would cause him to piss his pants had he not just emptied his bladder. 

The Hound must see the abject fear in Joffrey’s eyes, because he adds, “But she wants to present you all trussed up to her brother. And I expect that I’ll get a rather larger reward from him if you’re brought in alive.”

The Hound removes his hand from Joffrey’s face and cuffs him on the ear. “Talk about the girl that way again and I’ll cut out your tongue.” Joffrey has seen tongues cut out, flopping and spraying on the floor of the Great Hall. He would always laugh when the newly wordless men threw up a spew of bile and saliva and blood after it was done, but the image of his own tongue flipping on the ground makes him want to throw up. He can practically feel the emptiness in the cavity of his own mouth.

Joffrey falls silent and the Hound shoves him to the ground, then lashes him to the very spot on the tree trunk where he made water. The dog stalks back to the fire just as Sansa returns.

Once the Hound is far enough away, Joffrey's fear is overtaken by sizzling fury. He vows that after he escapes, he will order that everything the Hound threatens him with must be done to the girl first, and then to him twice over. He imagines the blood dripping from both of their traitor faces, their hollow mouths open in shock.

“Were you talking to him?” Sansa's shrill voice carries across the clearing. 

The Hound throws a glance toward Joffrey, shifts his bulk closer to Sansa. “Don’t worry, girl. Little shit stain just got bold, thinking we’re here to wait on his every need.”

Tears of molten rage flow from Joffrey’s eyes. He will make the Hound watch as the girl is torn to pieces. He will dip the Hound in wildfire and set it aflame himself. He will put what is left of both their heads on spikes, and then the entire realm will know what it means to cross King Joffrey. 

But first he must find a different way to escape.

*_*_*_*_*_*

[to be continued]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, yikes. I haven’t seen a Blackwater AU like this yet, but maybe there is a good reason for that (or maybe I just missed it in my fairly extensive reading of SanSan fic...). If you need some cotton candy after all this imagined gore, I invite you to check out my much fluffier AU, “Risk Assessment”. Your comments are truly appreciated. I feel very nervous posting this but it's been on my computer for months and it's time for me to be courageous and see what people think.


	2. Forest, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for your kind comments and kudos on the first chapter! I hope you enjoy this next installment. I reread your comments over and over again and they give me the encouragement to continue.
> 
> Warning: Joffrey makes some non-explicit suggestions of sexual assault in this and in coming chapters. As with the previous chapter, he also thinks many violent thoughts.

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

Joffrey awakens before dawn to the sound of distant thunder. His back aches from a week of sleeping upright and his scalp itches from fleas he picked up from his horse; the prospect of a day’s ride in the cold rain, in addition to these other discomforts, makes him want to kill something. As has become his morning routine, he starts cataloguing all the ways he will torture the Hound and Sansa when he gets the chance. After a while he forces himself to set aside his gruesome inventory in favor of pondering how to escape since the Hound so vehemently declined Joffrey’s attempted bribe. Joffrey gazes across the moonlit campsite for ideas.

The Hound sleeps peacefully, his head pillowed against a saddle blanket and his body covered by his cloak. His gloves and the heaviest pieces of his armor are grouped together on the ground near the horse tack and other supplies, but he is still wearing all of his chainmail, ready to fight at a moment’s notice. His longsword lays sheathed beside his hand.

As he glimpses the hilt of the Hound’s weapon, Joffrey feels unbearably foolish over the way he bungled his escape plan the previous night. He uncovered such a juicy secret, ripe for exploitation, but the exhaustion and hunger that he suffered at his captors’ hands caused him to handle everything so clumsily. He cannot afford to make the same mistake again. As he works out a new plan, he vows to follow Mother and Grandfather’s model; he will find a weak link and saw away at it patiently until it breaks. 

And Sansa, the useless little twit, is very weak. Hope flickers in Joffrey’s breast. 

She is awake, perched on a rock a few yards from where the Hound sleeps, taking her turn on watch. Her shoulders are hunched against the chill and her back is to Joffrey. She rolls a pebble under the toe of her boot, probably doing what she can to keep from nodding off and incurring the Hound’s wrath. 

Even after so many days on the road, Sansa still flinches every time the Hound so much as looks at her. _If only she knew of the vile way the dog wants to use her,_ Joffrey thinks, and then realizes that therein lies the key to his freedom. Every highborn lady Joffrey ever knew claimed to treasure her maidenhead the same as if it were all the gold in Casterly Rock. Plenty of those women were shameless lying sluts, but it was different for a maiden betrothed to the king. Even Sansa would never be stupid enough to allow so much as a kiss from any man besides Joffrey; her status as a Stark virgin was the only reason she was even kept alive until Uncle Jaime got himself taken hostage. Nothing would strike terror in her heart faster than the suggestion that her new protector, the Hound, would take away her last remaining bit of worth. Joffrey needs only to plant the idea in her soft mind; the skittish dimwit will come to the conclusion that she cannot trust her protector. And once she works that out, it’s only a matter of time before Joffrey can bargain with her to set him free. 

Excitement over his impending victory courses through Joffrey’s veins, and he stirs restlessly. He wants to tell Sansa everything at once, wants to scream across the clearing at this very moment horrifying tales of the Hound’s depravity. But doing so would only get him a dagger in the gut from his turncoat sworn shield. And besides, Joffrey can’t physically talk to her just yet; his gag is still in place.

No, Joffrey must be subtle, strategic, patient; he must act like the shrewd mix of Lannister and Baratheon that he is. He pictures the distant look that Grandfather gets in his eyes when he is contemplating battle plans; imagines the way Mother swirls her wine and makes that wicked half-smile when she has outsmarted her enemies. His family will gaze upon him with fearful respect; they will be so ashamed that they let the Hound and Sansa kidnap him in the first place. The bards will sing to his great grandsons about how King Joffrey alone destroyed the Hound using his incomparable wits and dragged the Stark girl back to King’s Landing in chains.

Joffrey clears his throat and shifts his feet, rustling the leaves beneath his legs, trying to get Sansa’s attention. He must not rouse the Hound. Before he can gore his enemies with his antlers, he must first stalk them like a lion.

Sansa turns around and meets his eye, but she does not speak to him. _Impertinent little bitch. Someday soon you will wail when I summon you,_ Joffrey thinks.

Sansa glances at the Hound. She is clearly trying to decide whether or not she should wake him. Icy panic creeps up Joffrey’s spine, but fortunately she chooses to let the dog sleep. Sansa tiptoes the short distance to Joffrey and carefully removes the cloth from his mouth.

Joffrey smacks his lips, getting the taste of the dirty fabric off his tongue. Sansa gazes down at him expectantly but not especially nervously. “A bit of bread, if you would,” Joffrey grinds out, mostly succeeding at keeping a leash on his temper.

Sansa looks at the Hound again; he snorts in his sleep like the animal that he is. “There’s only half a loaf left,” she replies almost apologetically, and gestures toward her fellow traitor. “He might want to --”

“Nevermind. Just some water then,” Joffrey cuts her off imperiously, then mentally berates himself. If he allows the girl’s stupidity to anger him, his voice will grow too loud and the Hound will get up and everything will be ruined. “Please,” he spits the word through his teeth like a lance piercing a tin shield, and imagines how Sansa’s head will roll down the steps of Baelor’s Sept.

Sansa removes the water skin from her belt and unstoppers it, then presses the opening to Joffrey’s mouth. He gulps the liquid down; it trickles down his throat and onto the rags of his once fine garb. Ever the lady, Sansa considerately wipes Joffrey’s wet neck with her sleeve. 

“Thank you for that kindness, Lady Sansa,” Joffrey murmurs, his voice oozing chivalry. He is not as good at false courtesy as Mother is, but he is decent enough.

“You’re welcome, Your Grace,” she responds reflexively before she remembers that she won’t get in trouble for being rude to the king out here. She looks back at the Hound as if expecting him to jump up and castigate her for her unintentional politeness, then moves to replace the gag.

Before she can do so, Joffrey asks softly, “Why did you flee King’s Landing with the Hound?” He prays to whatever god is listening that her answer will give him what he needs.

She furrows her brow, obviously weighing whether or not to answer. “He promised to keep me safe,” she answers finally. Suspicion clouds her expression, but her need to defend her monstrous champion overcomes her wariness toward Joffrey, and she lifts her chin impetuously. “He has kept his promise.”

“And what did you promise the Hound in return?” Joffrey whispers as his eyes linger on the boiled leather panel obscuring the swell of Sansa’s breasts. “Have you kept _your_ promise to him?”

The color drains from Sansa’s face. She swallows and bites her lip, then backs away from him quickly and turns on her heel to see to the horses. In her distraction, she fails to replace Joffrey’s gag.

Joffrey mentally congratulates himself on his rapid success. He has planted the seed of doubt in Sansa’s mind. He starts planning how to tend it so that it grows and blossoms into the means for his escape.

*_*_*_*_*_*

After the Hound awakens, the first thing he does is cruelly rebuke Sansa for forgetting to put Joffrey’s gag back in; Sansa stares at the ground and won’t look him in the face. Unchecked joy pulses through Joffrey’s veins as he watches the laughable exchange. Truly, the Hound is making it too easy for him.

Eventually the Hound gets tired of yelling at Sansa and divides the last of the bread for their morning meal, tossing Joffrey the smallest piece. The meal improves his mood, and when he speaks again his tone is weary but not angry. “Little bird, we’ve been keeping a good pace, but now that we have to find food each day, we’re going to have to slow down,” he warns, and appears troubled by the thought. "I've been packing up camp each morning, but now you’ll have to do it so I have time to hunt. And you’ll need to keep your eyes open for berries, mushrooms, that sort of thing.”

Joffrey welcomes the news at first. Perhaps he won’t even need to play on Sansa’s fears to escape. The longer they are on the road, the more likely someone will find him and rescue him. But that happy notion is extinguished after he realizes that he is equally likely to die of hunger out here with the two people he hates most in all his kingdom. 

If it is still his kingdom. Joffrey hasn’t the slightest idea what is going on outside of the forest. As much as he wants to know who is winning the war, it is probably just as well that the Hound and Sansa remain equally ignorant of who rules at the moment. If it turns out that Uncle Stannis now reigns at King’s Landing, and if Robb has bent the knee, his captors might decide that they can travel more quickly with Joffrey’s body in a ditch and his head stuffed into a saddlebag.

The prospect of starving after narrowly escaping certain death in King’s Landing must have turned the Hound desperate, because over the next few days of travel, while Joffrey waits as patiently as he can for another opportunity to speak with Sansa alone, the dog attempts to teach Sansa more about the wilderness in order to help improve their chances odds of survival. First, the Hound shows her how to follow streams so they don’t run out of water. Later, when they reach vantage points or an occasional break in the trees, he points to the horizon and tells her about signs that could indicate approaching enemies or plundering armies in the distance. One night, white-knuckled and with sweat dripping down his face, he demonstrates how to build a fire, then insists that she try until she can do it herself (all three of them freeze for hours that night, and Sansa looks as though she will break her promise not to cry again, until miraculously a spark finally alights upon the kindling and even Joffrey heaves a sigh of relief). 

Generally speaking, though, Joffrey enjoys how frequently Sansa makes mistakes and how much the Hound upbraids her for her failures. It all works to Joffrey’s advantage, anyway; surely Sansa will decide any day now that the Hound’s frustration with her will finally explode into something even more dangerous.

As for the Hound, Joffrey could have told him that he shouldn’t have been expecting much from Sansa -- she grew up a lady, and an exceptionally stupid one at that -- but the man is as relentless as a maester, and once in a great while the idiot wolf bitch gets something right. After a while, Joffrey is surprised to see, she starts getting things right more often.

Joffrey begins to fear that not all is going according to his expectations when one morning before dawn, the Hound hides Joffrey in the brush, bound and gagged as usual, so that he and Sansa can go over the hill to hunt for small game. The two traitors come back together, the Hound’s great paw on Sansa’s shoulder, and with an expression that might even be proud. The girl’s hands are scratched, her face is plastered with an incredulous and dazed smile, and her hand clutches a brace of pheasants. 

Joff’s stomach churns, and he isn’t sure if it is from the rage that his plan to make Sansa turn against the Hound might fail, or from the anticipation of eating the first piece of meat in days.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

A dank fog settles over the travelers just as they reach rockier territory with sparser trees and signs of farms in the distance. The Hound is even more foul to Sansa than before, which would have lifted Joffrey’s spirits if he weren’t so cold all the time. 

While the fog remains, everyone grows especially miserable. Because of the relatively open countryside, the Hound forbids Sansa from lighting a fire in case they are spotted; as such, they are reduced to cold dinners of mushrooms and bitter berries and once even a raw fish that the Hound caught in a pond. Joffrey swears to all the gods that once he is back on his throne, he will never again eat a morsel of food that hasn’t been roasted, baked, or fried.

Some of the nights are so cold that all three of them must lay side by side, sharing saddle blankets and cloaks (and undoubtedly fleas as well). When they must huddle together like this, the smelly, disgusting Hound always gets in the middle, presumably to protect Sansa from the horror of sleeping next to their prisoner king. Joffrey finds this arrangement nearly unbearable since the Hound invariably lays with his back to Sansa and then ends up breathing all over him, and snoring in his ear when it is Sansa’s turn to take watch; Joffrey’s only solace comes from the knowledge that Sansa must be shivering just as violently as he is. He adds “freezing to death” to his long list of ways to slowly kill his captors.

In the middle of one such night, when the damp chills Joffrey all the way to the roots of his now shaggy, tangled hair, he wakes to complete darkness with his stomach empty and his teeth chattering. For once, the Hound is not snoring in his ear; rather, the man is rolled over toward Sansa. In the quiet of the night, Joffrey can hear them whispering.

No, the Hound is whispering; the girl is sobbing. Maybe the Hound will finally kick her out from under the blankets and Joffrey can have her cloak.

"Little bird, stop crying,” the Hound rasps, although not with the bitterness that laced his voice throughout the day. “You won’t get out of your watch just because you’re not sleeping."

"I can't sleep,” Sansa replies, her voice a dry leaf skittering across the earth. _Me neither, not with your insufferable whining,_ Joffrey thinks to himself, resenting the fact that his bindings prevent him from itching his scalp where the nits keep biting. _I wouldn’t even mind missing out on my revenge if the two of you would just shut up and die right now._

Sansa sniffles again. “It is so cold and I am so hungry, and . . .” she pauses and lowers her voice. “ _He_ is so horrible."

The Hound snorts and props himself up on one elbow, allowing a finger of chilly air to creep under the cloak between his body and Joffrey’s. Joffrey imagines stabbing him in the back with an icicle. "Should I have left you where I found you on your featherbed at the capital?" 

"No! Never!" She retorts. _Her featherbed?_ Joffrey wonders about what the Hound was referring to. 

Sansa takes a ragged breath, and Joffrey can barely hear her on the other side of the Hound. "I'm sorry. You have done so much for me. For the North," she corrects. 

"Bugger the North. I just needed to get out of that fucking fireball horrorshow."

"So did I." She sighs and coughs. “Still, I have no right to complain to you.”

The Hound shifts again and clears his throat. "You’re right that it’s cold as fuck out here and dragging that little shit around with us is a hassle. All he does is eat what we catch and glare daggers at us.” He makes a clicking sound that Joffrey assumes is from him popping his jaw. “I could cut his throat and we’d move a lot faster." 

Joffrey stops breathing. He is certain they will be able to tell that he is awake and has been listening.

But Sansa only gasps. "No! You can't!” Joffrey is relieved to hear that the idea of killing her king still alarms her, at least until she explains further, “We have to keep him alive. He is the key to ensuring that Robb wins the war." _The two-faced selfish cunt, treating me like a bargaining chip,_ Joffrey thinks. 

“How do you know?” the Hound grunts. “We haven’t spoken to a person in weeks. Maybe your brother has won the war by now.”

“That cannot be true,” she counters. “The night skies are lit up in three different directions. The whole country is still burning.”

“Aye, you’re right. Maybe we should just bugger off to Pentos for a few years, wait out this mess til it’s safe to come back.”

Sansa laughs and seems to take the suggestion as a jest, but Joffrey files away the Hound’s words for later use. Perhaps this conversation will help get his plan back on track. 

“You’re getting better at reading the signs. I don’t suppose you would have noticed the fires at all a few weeks ago,” the Hound mumbles, his tone tinged with respect, and Joffrey wants to retch as he imagines Sansa blushing at the compliment in the darkness. 

“I am glad it’s not burning here, but I wish it were warmer.”

The Hound pulls the cloaks further over toward the girl, and now Joffrey’s other side is cold as well. "Here. You can be warmer." And then he does something that Joffrey couldn’t have imagined or hoped for -- he rolls over and, from what Joffrey can tell from the sound of things, drapes his massive arm over Sansa. 

Joffrey’s eyes snap open in shock, even though he can’t see anything for the darknesss. He expects Sansa to jump up and scream, or even slap the Hound in the face. 

Instead, both she and the Hound lay there, barely breathing, staying silent for what feels like a very a long time. Finally the girl speaks, in a louder, clearer voice. "This isn't proper."

"Proper?” the Hound barks, then remembers that Joffrey is beside him, ostensibly still asleep, and he dials his voice back into a harsh whisper. “It's not proper to flee the city in the middle of a war and take the king hostage. Staying close in the cold is just survival."

They lapse back into silence. One of the horses whickers down by the stream. Then, finally, Sansa’s voice comes out small and tense. "Alright." She must be lying taut as a bowstring right now, thinking of Joffrey’s intimations earlier, and just too scared to act right now. 

Joffrey clenches his fists against his sides, hoping against hope that tomorrow he will have the chance to speak with her alone. He might finally be able to bring this nightmare to an end if Sansa fears that the Hound might pull her beneath him at any moment.

The Hound releases a great breath of air, like the bellows in a blacksmith’s shop all compressing at once. _You are a fool to relax now, you great beast,_ Joffrey thinks excitedly. _Soon I will make my strike against you, and it will come in the form of the girl you lust after._

In spite of the cold, Joffrey is warmed by his ideas of revenge. He drifts off to sleep, imagining the Hound and Sansa tied to a single stake, their wool cloaks catching fire as all of King’s Landing came out to watch them burn.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

The next morning, the fog finally lifts, and the relative heat of the sun beating down on Joffrey's head almost makes him wish that the cold would come back. The three travelers descend into a humid, boggy valley where not so much as a breath of wind blows. The rotting leaves and the algae along the banks of the slow moving stream they follow make an unbearably rank smell that vies only with the stench of the Hound. He is practically steaming along the seams of his armor, and even Joffrey can smell his foul odor all the way over from the other horse. Sansa, perched practically atop the Hound’s thighs, looks clammy and ready to vomit from her proximity to him, although perhaps she is still thinking about the way that he so boldly put his arm about her the previous night. Joffrey takes a swig from the water skin tied to his wrists and suppresses a grin.

Eventually, it becomes apparent that at least some of Sansa’s disgust is the result of the Hound’s malodor. She overcomes her fear of seeming discourteous and pulls out a dirty rag tucked into her sleeve, then surreptitiously covers her nose and mouth with it. 

“You don’t exactly smell like a winter rose either, little bird,” the Hound grumbles, shifting awkwardly in the saddle behind her. _Well, he’s right about that,_ Joffrey thinks, before remembering that he probably smells at least as bad as Sansa does.

Sansa’s face turns from green to red. She lowers the cloth in shame and stares straight ahead. The Hound chuckles and nudges his black stallion with his heel; the horse picks up the pace and Joffrey’s mount clops along behind.

They stop at a wider section of the stream, shaded by a tree laden with small, sour-tasting plums that Joffrey remembers eating earlier in their journey. His mouth waters, anticipating his first full stomach in days.

The Hound swings down from the horse and pulls Sansa down behind him. “Let me wash up a bit here.” He does not even have to remind Sansa to start gathering as many plums as she can fit into their saddlebags.

They leave Joffrey on his horse. He would gladly trade his sword Hearteater to take a swim in the little pool right now. While his fleas are the only beings on this trip who appreciate his existence, he would just as soon be rid of them. He looks warily at the Hound, who gives him that revolting burned grimace, and decides against taking the risk to ask for it; the dog might drown him. 

The Hound sits down heavily on a log. “Little bird, I would have you keep watch for travelers while I am unarmed and without armor. And make sure that our honored guest is fed.”

“Of course,” Sansa replies with a serious nod. She gives Joffrey a handful of fruit that he quickly stuffs into his mouth, then moves to help the Hound unbuckle and remove his armor like a squire. 

The Hound hands her his dagger, which she clutches determinedly. Joffrey can’t help but snicker at that. The girl might have learned a couple tricks since they started traveling, but she still couldn’t fight off a lame alley cat.

“Something you find funny, Your Grace?” The Hound growls. Sansa looks down at the dagger and frowns, clearly embarrassed; she tucks it in her belt as if to spare it from the shame of being held by someone so unschooled in fighting. Stupid as the girl is, she has always demonstrated a remarkable sensitivity to any jest Joffrey has ever cared to make. It was what always made it so fun to torment her, before.

Joffrey transforms his chortle into a noisy show of spitting out a plum pit and shakes his head. The Hound nods as if to say, _Good, and keep it that way_ , then pulls his grimy tunic over his head, revealing a pale, grotesquely muscled, hairy torso. Sansa averts her eyes and blushes deeply as the Hound drops the soiled garment to the ground, although whether she is reacting to the sight of the Hound’s body or his overpowering odor, Joffrey is unsure. 

“Girl, the sight of my naked back won’t hurt you, but armed men will! Stop staring at the ground and watch for intruders!” The Hound commands as he stalks over to the streambank. Sansa snaps her head up as instructed, and the flush on her cheeks spreads all the way down her neck.

As the Hound steps into the stream with his breeches still on, Joffrey realizes that he finally has the opportunity to speak with Sansa that he has been desperately waiting for. The Hound probably can’t hear him from this distance, with his ears muffled by the sound of splashing water. 

“Sansa,” Joffrey whispers, beckoning to her with a jerk of his head. 

Sansa approaches and hands him more plums, then puts her hand on the horse’s muzzle and strokes it. “What is it,” she hisses, more of a statement than a question. Traveling with the Hound at her side has made her bold these past weeks, but hopefully she still has some fear left in her from the previous night.

Joffrey glances at the Hound, who has submerged himself to his armpits and is rubbing his face. "I know you fled the terrors of the war in King’s Landing and you believe you must stay with the Hound now. But I cannot remain silent any longer -- you are not safe with him." 

Sansa looks uncertainly over her shoulder to the streambank. She turns back and rests her eyes on the the horse, no longer able to meet Joffrey’s eyes. 

Hopefully that means Joffrey is getting through her thick skull. For the thousandth time, he imagines that very skull on a spike over the Red Keep and his plan is nearly derailed with excitement of the image. "The dog wants you -- he confessed when I confronted him,” Joffrey breathes quietly. That gets her attention. He better sell this one good, and fast, or he will find himself at the mercy of the Hound’s blade. “He’s wanted you a long time, even back in King’s Landing. Begged me to let him have you once I made another match. I told him that a pathetic middleborn scum who isn’t even a knight doesn’t deserve a highborn lady like you, and that’s why he kidnapped the two of us. He took me so your brother will give you to him.” _Come on, you are so thick that you’ll have to buy this farce._

Sansa strokes the horse’s nose, shushes it as it snorts. Joffrey isn’t sure if she even hears what he is saying, the little dullard. Her cheeks are flushed, hopefully from the shame of imagining what it would be like to have Joffrey hand her off to the Hound as a reward. But still she stays silent.

It’s not working. Joffrey needs to be explicit. "He is disgusting, a vile man, and I should know because he served me my whole life. He thinks he is so clever -- playing the savior for now, but mark my words, he will have you under him with your legs spread before you know it."

Sansa swallows, glances back at the Hound, who is wringing out the water from his greasy mop of hair. His obscenely muscled arms flex and water streams down his elbows. Joffrey thinks he detects a flicker of fear cross her face, but he can’t be sure. Maybe it is just disbelief. 

Finally, she speaks, her words barely audible. “He saved me. He won’t hurt me.”

“Sure, if carrying you off to rape you is your idea of being saved,” Joffrey presses. “He’ll do it any day now. He’s getting more brazen.” He cannot reveal that he overheard them last night, but he can give her other details that hopefully she will find sufficiently horrifying. He lowers his voice as he murmurs, “I saw him sniff your hair the other day like the mongrel he is, while you were sleeping. And even a --” he bites back the desire to say _brainless waif_ , “-- an innocent maid like yourself must have noticed that hideous face of his turned toward you constantly, his hands lingering on you while we’ve been traveling.” 

Sansa stares at him with wide, vapid eyes. _Yes, got you, you idiot child._ Joffrey can almost look through those translucent blue lenses and see the cogs slowly turning in her head, working it out that the Hound’s gentle hands have been working toward a more sinister purpose.

Joffrey presses on, glancing at the Hound again. The big man has pulled a handful of grass from the side of the streambed and is rubbing himself down with it. _Quickly, there is but a moment_. “He’s being kind now, at least, as much as a brute like him can be kind, but he will grow impatient. And then there won’t be anything I can do to help you. That’s why we have to help each other now. Obviously we can’t overpower him, but when he’s asleep tonight, you can untie me and the two of us can slit his throat with the dagger he gave you. Or not even that, just steal the horses and leave him alone!” he adds quickly, when Sansa’s nostrils flare at the suggestion that she could hurt someone. “We could head toward Casterly Rock,” _or the first inn that has Lannister bannermen, who will string you up by your traitorous neck._ "They will make sure we are fed and safe, and we can put this whole terrible ordeal behind us."

Sansa whips her head up and stares at Joffrey then, and this time, she does not break eye contact. Joffrey is unnerved by her sudden display of spine, but perhaps it is just her way of negotiating. Well, he can sweeten the pot further. "Sansa, you were my loyal betrothed in King’s Landing. No one would blame you for wanting to escape that place during the war. Perhaps you just want to go home, be with your family again. I could make sure that happens with your maidenhead intact, if you and I escape together."

A great splash comes from the direction of the stream. The Hound has lifted himself onto the bank in a single motion, the cold water dripping from his bare torso and soaked breeches. He approaches the two of them. 

Joffrey spares one last look at Sansa. “Tonight, we’ll do it,” he hisses. He is almost certain that he read her right, that he has inspired terror in the insipid girl.

Still sopping wet, the Hound falls to one knee at Sansa’s feet and picks up his tunic. “Gods be good, I needed that. Almost feel like a man again.” He pulls the garment over his head and adjusts it back into place, then catches Sansa’s eye and grimaces. “Girl, your face is more aflame than your hair. Does my bare chest leave you so garbled?”

Sansa’s eyes widen but she does not respond to his jeer. “S-Sandor,” she chokes out. 

Joffrey has never paid much attention, but he is fairly certain that he has never heard Sansa use his dog’s name. Her speech surprises him; her hands on the Hound’s shoulders shock him. 

The Hound looks similarly befuddled, his mouth gaping open, his body frozen in a half-kneel. Sansa gazes searchingly into the Hound’s face. She seems to find what she is looking for. Resolutely, she leans in and brushes her lips full against the Hound’s revolting scarred cheek. 

Sansa speaks with a high, clear voice. “I am grateful that you saved me from the horrors of King’s Landing.” She gives Joffrey an icy glare before planting another kiss on the Hound’s unburnt cheek. “And I am ever in your debt since you helped me kidnap the pretender king Joffrey to give to my brother Robb, King in the North. You will be well rewarded for your service." She gives Joffrey a final glance and storms off to ready her horse to depart.

The Hound stares at her retreating form, mouth still open with incomprehension. He finally shakes it off and rounds on Joffrey, and Joffrey shrinks back, terrified that the Hound will strike him again. Instead, the Hound meets his eyes and laughs, laughs in the face of his king. 

As the terror subsides, Joffrey imagines staking his limbs to the ground and riding his horse back and forth over the Hound’s prone form until he is trampled to death. 

The Hound is still guffawing when he mutters, "I don’t know what you said to the girl, but I don't think it worked out like you planned." 

Later, when the three of them are riding away and Joffrey has had time to process what he witnessed, he comes to the conclusion that the girl is playing the Hound in order to get what she needs. As stupid as she is, even a simpleton like her could fool a brute like his dog. She cannot possibly care for the beast. Could she?

*_*_*_*_*_*

[to be continued]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wasn’t totally canon-compliant with some of the plant life in Westeros (or Earth, for that matter) . . . but then I decided that since I am already making Sansa and Sandor hang out with Joffrey for weeks on end, the least I can do for them is invent some convenient food sources :)
> 
> Just as all the fake weird food keeps our OTP alright, your comments sustain me. Thank you!!!


	3. Forest, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil shorter than some previous chapters but I think this makes some stuff move forward. Your comments are so, so, so appreciated!!!!

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

The traitors set up a fireless camp in a small earthen depression surrounded by a cluster of boulders, and the Hound tosses Joffrey a ration of plums and a few raw mushroom caps for supper. The odd combination of foods makes Joffrey’s stomach pucker and roil, but at least tonight’s meal doesn’t include tadpoles and grubs, like it did once after the Hound failed to catch any game or find edible plants for three straight days. Joffrey almost threw up that night, but stupid simpering Sansa actually did. The Hound mocked both of them and slurped down half a dozen grubs and twice as many tadpoles with as much gusto as if he were feasting on roasted lampreys. 

After the meal, the Hound checks Joffrey’s bindings and secures the gag. Sansa tucks a cloak around his trussed-up body and heads to the far side of the rock circle. Neither of them look Joffrey in the eyes or talk to him, which somehow fills him with as much rage as the image of Sansa’s insolent glares and the sound of Hound’s derisive laughter from earlier in the day. Joffrey’s spiraling anger keeps him awake in spite of his exhaustion, and he watches his captors moving about camp in the moonlight, his eyes burning with hatred.

Sansa, whose once enviable hair has become hopelessly snarled from weeks on the run, picks at one of the especially ratty knots on the side of her head. Her nails make annoying little thock-thock sounds as she pulls at the matted mess, and her dirty round face is screwed up in concentration. When she accidentally yanks out a clump of hair from her scalp, she hisses in pain. Joffrey ponders ripping all the hair off her head, and imagines that the Hound wouldn't be so eager to bed her with a bald, bleeding scalp. 

The Hound has been leaning against a big rock, ostensibly sharpening his sword, but really he has been staring even more creepily at Sansa than usual, probably hoping that she will plant another kiss on his monstrous scars. When Sansa makes another pitiful noise, he rises, his joints cracking, and slumps over to where the girl is seated. “Hand me that dagger of yours, Sansa,” he mutters, his tongue tripping over her name.

Even in the dark with no one paying attention to him, Joffrey rolls his eyes at the overly familiar address. It’s bad enough when the Hound calls Sansa “little bird” or “girl,” but she should be downright insulted to hear the dog address her by without her title, whether she’s a worthless traitor or not. 

Sansa doesn’t seem to take offense, though. Instead, she pulls the knife from its sheath at her belt and presents it to the Hound hilt first, without hesitation. “Of course. It is yours to take, S-Sandor,” she stutters.

Joffrey wrinkles his nose in disgust. _Gods, they are so pathetic_. It is faintly embarrassing and extremely boring watching the two of them blunder around, each one trying to get something out of the other. Mother would have found a way to turn them against one another by now, but then Mother is well-practiced at manipulation, being a woman and unable to bend people to her will with feats of strength. Until recently, Joffrey didn't have time for paying much attention to his underlings. He was too busy winning a war and ruling Westeros. But at this moment, he wishes that he too had Mother's gift for weaving deceptions so that he could escape.

The Hound nudges Sansa gently from the rock upon which she is perched, then takes her place. “Sit on the ground. I’ll help you with that knot.”

Sansa gives the Hound a dispirited look. “Please don’t cut too much off,” she pleads.

The Hound doesn’t reply. He tilts her head to the side and takes the chunk of hair in one hand, then saws at the taut strands, close to the nape of her neck, as Sansa grimaces. “There, all done,” he rasps as he cuts the last of it out. 

Sansa brings her hands up to her hair, patting at the different lengths, and sighs heavily. She turns around and asks, “Does it look terrible?”

“It’s not a style that’s likely to catch on at court,” the Hound chortles. Sansa frowns, clearly miserable.

Joffrey stifles a laugh. Here in the bright light of the full moon, the girl looks like a mad fool or a witch, with two-thirds of her hair flying around long and tangled, and the other third hacked off and ragged. Really, though, it’s surprising that she even notices the loss of a few clumps of hair, given that her face has become so thin from half-starving, her clothes and skin are filthy from weeks in the saddle, and her lice are as numerous as Fleabottom beggars. _Pretty soon she will be so homely the Hound will be the only man left who is willing to take her,_ Joffrey thinks as he finally drifts into a light, frustrated sleep.

*_*_*_*_*

Joffrey awakens to the smell and taste of thick, bitter smoke. When he opens his eyes, he sees the Hound and Sansa scurrying around through a haze that has settled in the little valley as thick as fog. Bits of ash float down from the purple dawn sky like papery snowflakes. Nearby, the horses stamp their feet and paw at the grass restlessly.

Sansa looks even more ridiculous than she did last night, with a somber expression on her face and flecks of ash in her hair. She has twisted her hacked locks into a few short braids in what Joffrey sees as an unsuccessful attempt to appear slightly less disheveled than if she just let it fly all over the place. Compared to the Hound, however, she looks well-kempt and under control.

The Hound is barely holding himself together, Joffrey notes with a surge of pleasure. The warrior saddles up the nervous horses, muttering, “Bloody fucking fire,” over and over again like a septon’s chant. His scraggly black hair hangs lank with sweat in spite of the chilly air, and his pallid face looks even more ghastly than usual. He snarls at Sansa when she doesn’t pack up as quickly as he demands, and thrice he orders her to check the water skins, each time barking louder and angrier than the last, and each time forgetting that he refilled them himself the previous night. Sansa tries to pat the Hound’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort, but he just shrugs her hand off and glares at her.

 _Yes, suffer,_ Joffrey thinks. _Burn and die, you useless coward. You and the redhaired bitch you desire, both._

The Hound secures Joffrey to his nag with more fumbling than usual, and, much to Joffrey’s dismay, declines to remove the gag or give him a drink of water. Then the traitor places Sansa on the back of the black stallion’s saddle and mounts up in front of her. “Don’t know who we might run into today,” he growls as he pulls Sansa's arms around his waist. “Hold on and don’t fall off.” 

Sansa gives the Hound that insufferable serious nod that she always uses when she wants to prove what a good little listener she is, and Joffrey hopes that his own horse tramples her if she does, in fact, topple from the back of the saddle. But then the Hound would have no reason at all to keep him alive.

“Don’t get any ideas about finding freedom with the scum who set the blasted fire, Your _Grace_ ,” the Hound spits, as if Joffrey had much say in the matter with his horse’s bridle tethered to the stallion’s saddle. “Those men are just as likely to be your enemies as ours, so if we come across them, don’t expect them to take up your cause.”

Such a thought hadn’t occurred to Joffrey at all. He had been assuming that both the fire and whoever started it must be far away by now, but the Hound’s statement gives him a measure of hope. If the fire was started by Lannister troops, and if the men are numerous enough, they might have a chance against his former sworn shield. If only the blasted gag weren’t still in his mouth . . .

The two horses trot deep into the hollow, with the cliffs on either side jutting up and coming so closely together that at times there is only enough width on the valley floor for the small muddy trail and the now quite foul-smelling stream beside it. When the gorge narrows so sharply that the riders cannot see around the twists and turns, the Hound draws his sword and keeps it ready for whatever lies ahead. The sun shimmers through the thick late morning haze, a pink glowing disc that Joffrey can stare at straight without hurting his eyes.

“Is all this smoke from a battle, do you think?” Sansa inquires, coughing into her sleeve.

“Don’t be stupid, girl,” the Hound barks over his shoulder with none of the revolting tenderness that has been creeping into his voice in recent days. “That black taste in the air means someone’s been setting a torch to fields. Probably villages too. If we’re lucky the valley will open up before we get to the ruins, and we can travel under the cover of the trees. If we’re not, we’ll have to go right through it and hope that whoever did it is long gone.”

Joffrey has never seen the Hound look so scared, except for the night at Blackwater. The idea that such a fierce fighter could be frightened makes Joffrey’s stomach flip flop uneasily, as if the grubs and tadpoles were still squirming around inside of him.

The valley does open up, but there is no forest to provide cover for the riders. The two horses round a blind curve on the path, and the tall cliffs recede into a wider vale of steep terraced fields that might have recently been growing corn or wheat, but that are now scorched black to the dirt. A few twisted, blackened tree trunks rise up like buried giants’ skeletal hands clawing their way out of the earth. Everything else -- every plant, every fence, every structure -- has been leveled to the ground by the flames, and recently. Smoke still rises from embers that mark the remains of buildings. 

Joffrey’s heart pumps with excitement and fear and hope. The destruction is not on the same level as Stannis’s fleet all aflame on Blackwater Bay, a lifetime ago, but it is still impressive. Is it possible that Lannister men did this? If so, they are making him proud. Every last hollow should feel the wrath of the lions until their king is found and restored to the throne. If not -- Joffrey doesn’t want to think about whether his situation could deteriorate further.

“Seven fucking hells,” the Hound grinds out through his teeth, as they pass a hole in the ground that might have once been the village well. The black stallion flattens his ears, and the Hound curses, yanks on its reins. “Gregor.”

Sansa gasps and clutches at the Hound’s waist. “He’s here?” she cries fearfully, her head swiveling around wildly as she tries to catch sight of the Mountain that Rides.

“No, little bird. But he or his men did this,” the Hound says, his voice tight. He points the tip of his sword to a waist-high heap of charred bones under the branches of a nearby tree. "I've seen my brother’s work often enough to know his signature. You see this, boy?” The Hound addresses Joffrey for the first time all day. “This is the work of your family’s bannermen. If your lord grandfather doesn’t rein them in soon, you will rule over a kingdom of ashes."

Joffrey wants to tell the Hound that he would happily burn all of Westeros to the ground if it meant he would defeat Sansa’s brother, but he knows better, and he couldn’t even if he wanted to with the gag still in. Instead he gazes past the old well and notices a second bone pile nearby of burned skulls, humans and animals mixed together, all stacked up like rocks for a catapult. It is gruesome, and invigorating. Joffrey would leap out of his saddle in joy if he weren’t tethered to it. _Surely Gregor and his company of men will help me if we come across them,_ he thinks with glee. Ser Gregor is the strongest Lannister knight there is, and his hatred for his little brother is common knowledge. Before the Hound kidnapped him, Joffrey never knew the reason why Gregor despised his brother, but now he understands. If Tommen were so stupid as to let his cock come before his king, Joffrey would want to kill him too. 

“Someday I’m going to slay that butcher brother of mine, I swear to any god who is listening,” the Hound promises, his voice like the scrape of a gravedigger’s spade in mud. Sansa gasps, obviously frightened, and the Hound seems to remember her presence again. “But not today. I’ll keep you safe, girl,” he says, and presses his mailed elbow down over Sansa’s arm. _Not this again,_ Joffrey thinks, but then the Hound glares over his shoulder at him, with eyes so full of rage Joffrey's innards turn into ice.

*_*_*_*_*_*

They trot through the scorched valley for the rest of the afternoon, occasionally coming across more blackened bones or glowing embers, but as the sun sets they reach the edge of the destruction. The valley bottoms out into boggy, hilly riverlands, and there have been no new signs of Ser Gregor’s men. The Hound, looking rather green in the face, tells Sansa that he would prefer to press on, but the horses are so hungry and tired that they must stop for the evening. Joffrey is relieved to hear it too, since he hasn’t had a drink of water or a morsel of food all day.

While Sansa brings out their supplies, the Hound hobbles the horses and tends to Joffrey -- supervising him as he pisses and giving him some water and the last of the plums, and flopping him down, all bound up and unable to move, beneath some cobweb-filled bushes -- then sinks his massive frame to the ground, utterly spent. Sansa sidles up next to him and asks for the flint.

"No fire tonight, little bird,” he responds. “No fucking fire ever again if I had my way."

Sansa helps the Hound remove his breastplate and other outer armour, and places her hand on his shoulder again to comfort him. This time, the Hound does not shrug her away. _Not even more of this,_ Joffrey thinks in exasperation, and clamps his eyelids shut, wishing for sleep to come and relieve him from his two unbearable companions. Their interactions were more tolerable when they still worried about Joffrey’s presence. Now they barely even bother to keep their voices hushed; it doesn’t matter, he can hear everything they say anyway.

Sansa starts up first in her shrill little whine. “This journey seemed to take less time on the way south all those years ago, even with all those people and the wheelhouse.”

“Well, what did you expect?” the Hound huffs, evidently affronted. Joffrey opens his eyes again; there’s no point in trying to sleep with these two yapping at one another. “We couldn’t exactly march up the Kingsroad. And we don’t have hunters or butchers or food stocks. If it was just you and me, we’d be moving faster, but His Bloody Grace is slowing us down."

"I know." She kicks her feet and the leaves on the forest floor rustle. “I’m not complaining, Sandor. You’ve been . . . incredible. Amazing.”

“Gallant?” The Hound grunts, then takes a swig from his water skin, but Joffrey knows that he is pleased. He hands Sansa the skin, and she takes a long, unladylike pull from it as well.

Sansa wipes her mouth with her sleeve and fiddles with her short braids. "Sandor, what will happen when we get to Riverrun?"

"Hopefully your brother’s scouts will find us when we’re a day or two out and believe you are who you say you are. And hopefully they don’t recognize me, or try to put an arrow through my throat from a distance. Best that we don’t reveal Joffrey until we’re standing before King Robb, or some of his lords who you know and trust."

Sansa shifts and looks down at her hands, pale and glowing in the moonlight. “That’s not -- I mean, after we hand over Joffrey, and I am back with my family. What will happen?”

The Hound stares up at the stars through the canopy in the trees. He breathes slowly, meditatively. Joffrey thinks that he won’t reply at all, but finally he says, "You already know. They will marry you off to secure an alliance."

Sansa sighs, as though a heavy stone has settled on her spine, between her shoulder blades. Her breath hitches and Joffrey thinks she is going to start crying, but instead she starts laughing, and can’t seem to stop. She sounds half mad. Maybe she is by now.

The Hound reaches his big paw over, shakes her shoulder. "Little Bird. Little -- Sansa?" She must be making him uncomfortable. He grabs her by the other shoulder and twists her around so that she is facing him. "What is so funny?"

Sansa wipes away a tear as she chuckles. "I just thought, would it not be amusing for them to marry me to a green young lord away from home for the first time? He would not know how to do half the things I learned from you.”

The Hound snorts. "He would not appreciate you pointing that out to him, if he is like most young lords I have met." He laughs a little too, but it is hard, mirthless, and drops his hands from her shoulders.

Sansa picks at the hem of her sleeve. “You are pleased with what I have learned.”

“I know that skills keep you alive, not a stupid title.”

“Out here that's true,” Sansa agrees, sweeping the longer locks of hair over her shoulder. “My title was all that protected me in King’s Landing.”

The Hound says nothing. From down by the stream, one of the horses whickers. The wind picks up and some brown leaves fly down from the trees above.

“My title and you,” Sansa continues, so quietly that Joffrey almost doesn’t hear what she says, and she places her small hand over the Hound’s.

The Hound tenses up but doesn’t pull his hand away. Joffrey holds his breath, now quite curious to hear if the Hound will say anything.

Instead, Sansa inhales, and her breath rattles dry in her lungs. "I don't want to get married." 

Finally, the Hound says something. "It won't be like -- with _him_." The word curdles in his mouth as he juts his chin toward the bushes where Joffrey is bundled up. "It can't be that bad again."

Neither of them speak for a long time. Just as Joffrey is finally dozing off, Sansa’s high voice jerks him fully awake again. He opens his eyes and sees that the girl has shifted much closer to the Hound than she was before.

“Sandor, when we get to Riverrun, don't just leave with some dragons in your purse. You must stay and fight for us.” She tucks an arm around the Hound’s elbow, and he looks down at it awkwardly.

“Oh must I now?” he rasps, his eyes meeting hers.

“The North needs you,” she says, her eyes shining. “And you need a new lord.”

“Bugger the lords. With enough coin I could cross the sea, buy a manse, live out my days drinking and getting fed grapes by pretty serving wenches.”

Sansa presses her lips into a thin line. “ _I_ need you. Please stay to serve my family.” Sansa places her free hand on his forearm and presses her side to his like some common country inn whore. “You are the only one I trust.”

The Hound swallows, glances down at her hands on him, looks back up into her eyes. He covers her hand in his, leans closer to her. “You shouldn't trust me, little bird,” he whispers.

A horse whinnies, but it is coming from the wrong direction. Sansa and the Hound freeze. Joffrey’s eyes open wide as he hears a man shout, “Come on, you buggering fools. We’re camping here tonight. I’m not going to have another horse break a leg in this fucking forest.”

A chorus of voices from further away cackles in response. Another man shouts back, “Your fucking horse broke his fucking leg because you’re so fucking fat. You should ask your rich Lannister lord to give you an aurochs to carry you into battle.”

Beneath his gag, Joffrey grins.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*


	4. Forest, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m not following canon strictly here with regard to where people are supposed to be post-Battle of Blackwater. Please forgive me for sacrificing canon in favor of character development . . .
> 
> Warning: Violent and gory (at least for me). Lots of language. Also, a little fluffy fluff fluff. Maybe not as well edited as it should have been.

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

*_*_*_*_*_*

“I might be fat, but at least the wind isn’t going to knock me off my horse like you scrawny little toothpicks!” the first soldier shouts, just over the hill from Sansa and the Hound’s camp. Joffrey doesn’t recognize his voice -- disappointingly, it’s not Ser Gregor, but at least he already identified himself as a Lannister man -- but he seems to rank at least slightly senior to the others. The man’s companions guffaw. “Squire, get the fire started. My big hairy arse is numb from sitting in this damned saddle.”

The Hound snatches his swordbelt off the ground and yanks Sansa up by the arm, then hauls her into the bushes where Joffrey lays bound and gagged. He releases Sansa and grabs Joffrey by the throat. “If you make one sound, I will twist your head off your neck with my bare hands. Nod once to show you understand,” he growls in Joffrey’s ear, his hot breath tinged with fear in spite of his violent threats. The traitor’s thumb digs into the soft skin under Joffrey’s jaw, and Joffrey knows he means it. 

Joffrey wants to spit in the Hound’s frightened, ruined face and tell him to piss off, but instead his bladder releases and his worn velvet breeches soak up the hot urine. He jerks his chin down once, his whole frame shaking with hatred and shame.

On the other side of Joffrey, Sansa whimpers and the Hound hushes her. “Not one word, little bird,” he whispers. “Sounds like four or five men, but not Gregor, thank the gods. I might be able to take them on, but I don’t want to risk it with you here.” He checks Joffrey’s gag and bindings, then looks back through the dappled shadows over Joffrey’s head, his eyes boring into Sansa. “Let the bastards get a little more settled, let take off some of their armor and get some drink in their bellies, and then let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The Lannister men over the hill shout at one another as they unpack for the night, making as much noise as an entire garrison. They build a large fire that lights up the tree trunks at the top of the hill and throws eerie shadows over the Hound’s scars. Clearly, the soldiers don’t care if anyone knows they are out here in the forest. For just a moment, Joffrey wishes they were acting more like his captors. If they were, they might be able to hear the Hound and Sansa trying to escape, and then they would come rescue him.

The Hound reaches around behind Joffrey and uses his free hand -- the one that is not wrapped around Joffrey’s neck -- to nudge Sansa’s shoulder. “The whoresons are getting nice and comfortable now. They won’t hear us if we move quietly. I’ll stay here with His Grace so that the little shit doesn’t get any ideas about alerting his friends over there to our presence. You need to pack up what you can and leave what you can’t.” Sansa nods and gulps. The Hound continues, “Get the horses last. They are the most likely to make noise and give us away. If the fucking lions notice me and Joff, vault your little arse onto Stranger and ride like the wind.”

Sansa’s eyes are so wide they look like two hardboiled eggs with blue yolks in the moonlight. “I can’t leave without --”

“None of us are going to leave alive if you don’t fucking move right now!” he spits in a harsh whisper, and he shoves her out of the bushes. Through the gaps in the leaves Joffrey can see Sansa creeping away toward the pile of the Hound’s armor, her footsteps inaudible over the raucous laughter of the soldiers.

“My pissant life may not be worth an auroch’s shit, but the little bird is going home to her family, and I will _fucking_ kill you if you try to harm her,” the Hound hisses, and he squeezes Joffrey’s neck with his huge dirty hand again. 

Joffrey has never seen the warrior so angry or so scared, not even at Blackwater. The Hound is the most dangerous when he is enraged, and Joffrey truly fears for his life. But then Joffrey realizes he has a thread of power at this moment, more than at any other time on this nightmarish journey. The Hound isn’t just afraid of the Lannister men -- he is afraid of what Joffrey might do.

Sansa seems to sense her companion’s unease, because she returns to the bushes with his helm and his breastplate. The Hound kicks at her though, and urges her to leave the clinking armor and pack only those things without which they will not survive. Cowed by the Hound’s quiet rage, Sansa crawls back into the clearing to collect the supplies together as the Hound demanded.

By now, the soldiers have gotten quite comfortable, Joffrey observes unhappily. Their voices slur, heavy with drink, and their laughter echoes through the trees, making it sound like there are more of them than there are. Joffrey listens intently, hoping to hear something that will give him information about the state of his kingdom. To his shock, Joffrey hears his own name on their lips.

“I don’t care what the Queen Regent says, King Joffrey is long dead. My brother swore he saw the Hound strap His Grace to a rock and fling him out of one of the catapults during the battle, and that’s why no one’s found the body,” declares the warbly voice of the man who called himself fat earlier. “Then he ran off with the Stark girl and sold her to Stannis before the pretender fled back to Dragonstone.”

In spite of his evident fear, the Hound snickers, just once. “Maybe I should have done that first part,” he whispers in Joffrey’s ear. “Then Sansa would be safe with her brother by now, instead of here with you and me.”

A higher, reedy voice joins the conversation. “The Cleganes have been with the Lannisters all their lives, and neither of them would betray their liege lords. I bet that Lady Sansa is a red priestess in disguise who bewitched the Hound and had him spirit her out during the battle."

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Northerners don't follow the Lord of Light,” hisses a third man with a voice like a serpent. “One of the castle chambermaids swore to me that the Stark girl and Clegane turned into wolves and feasted on the King’s body, then slipped out of the Keep with their tails between their legs.”

Joffrey clenches his teeth in the filthy cloth gag, now nearly as angry at his potential rescuers as he is at his captors. _These drunk fucking soldiers could all become lords tomorrow if they would stop their stupid storytelling and just open their ears. Sansa’s packing up with all the grace of a milk cow, and they’d hear her if only they would listen._

“That doesn’t make no bloody sense, Thom,” says a much younger sounding voice. “Sandor Clegane is no northerner. He can’t turn into a wolf like the girl can.”

“That don’t make no bloody sense because nobody can turn into a wolf, you fucking idiot squire,” crows a fifth man. “Listen truly, I know the real reason the Hound stole her during Blackwater.” The soldiers all quiet down. Joffrey notices that the Hound is holding his breath, and Sansa pauses in her slow attempt to silently untangle the horse tack.

The speaker inhales dramatically, excited to have everyone's attention. "The Hound has been cuckolding the King for months, fucking the Stark girl in the godswood!” The other men boo and laugh in response, and a few try shouting down the speaker, whose feeling of righteousness only seems to increase as his companions heap abuse on his suggestion. “No, it’s true! He finally got the bitch to whelp him a pup, and he stole her away because she was growing big with a monstrous babe of his. You know that any child of his will be the size of a tree."

The men cackle and one of them makes a toast to the Hound’s unborn bastard. The Hound swallows dryly, and his fingernails pulse against Joffrey’s throat. Joffrey’s eyes reflexively flick over to Sansa and her belly, even though he knows she is flat as a board. She can’t be pregnant. She can’t have done -- that -- with the Hound, right under his nose. Could she have?

The fat commander seems to agree with Joffrey’s assessment as he finally speaks up again. “What a crock of shit, Woad. Have you ever seen the Hound? I have. I rode in his sortie at Blackwater until he turned craven. Not exactly the type that highborn ladies spread their legs for. Meanest, ugliest bastard I’ve ever met, even with his helm on.”

“Even uglier than you?” The reedy voiced soldier rejoins. The rest of the men roar with laughter, and the Hound curses under his breath.

Joffrey looks back to the clearing, but Sansa is not there. Then he spies her coming up from the creek, leading the two horses by their reins. Joffrey clenches his bound fists uselessly. If the idiot drunken fire-blinded soldiers don’t notice something soon, Joffrey could lose what might very well be his last chance for a rescue.

But then, finally, finally, the gods smile upon their King. The Hound’s great black horse nips and whinnies at Joffrey’s old nag, and as Sansa tries to quiet them both, the stallion flattens his ears and rears up. Sansa drops the reins in fright. The Hound releases Joffrey’s neck and scuttles out of the bushes, calming the horses and thrusting the saddle over his stallion. The traitors are not more than half a dozen yards from Joffrey, but there is enough distance between them to give Joffrey a chance to get the soldier’s attention before the Hound can come back and strangle him. 

Joffrey’s muffled voice won’t carry over the hill, but he knows what will. With his heart in his throat, he whips back his bound feet and then jackknifes his body forward, knocking the Hound’s helm against the breastplate. He kicks it over and over, making a great clang that rings through the forest.

“What in seven hells is that?” The fat man asks loudly, and Joffrey hears the swish of several swords being drawn.

Joffrey keeps up the clanging even as he spares a glance at the Hound and Sansa’s moonlit forms. They are frozen, staring at one another in horror. Then the Hound thrusts the horses’ reins back into her hand and pulls his sword from its scabbard, just as the Lannister men are scrambling over the hill.

“What in the . . . the seven bloody kingdoms. . . do we have here?” the fat man huffs in breathless astonishment, his chainmail-covered belly wriggling. He clutches a mace in one beefy fist.

“It’s the bloody fucking craven Hound!” says a tall, thin man with boiled leather armor who owns the reedy voice. 

The Hound drops to a defensive stance, blocking Sansa and the horses. “Come over here and see how craven I am, lion cubs,” the Hound threatens, but his voice doesn’t have the ice-cold confidence that Joffrey remembers from tourneys.

The three men who came over the hill first halt where they are, but two others approach cautiously, edging their way past to surround the Hound. “Who’s the girl?” the man with the slithery voice asks, a gold tooth glinting in the dark. “It can’t be --”

“Oh, but it is,” the fat man says. “Grant you, she’s looking a lot rougher than when she was a pretty court maiden, but I’d remember that fiery hair anywhere, even here under the light of the moon.” He takes a cautious step forward and slides his fingers up the handle of the mace. “Tell us true, Hound, we have a wager on this. Did the she-wolf bewitch you the night of Blackwater, or did you put a baby in her belly and hope to hide your little pup away from the King?”

“Bugger your wagers. All of you worthless little shits will be dead before you can collect your winnings,” the Hound replies, his voice as black and as thick as pitch. He jerks his sword forward, but takes a step backward. “Sansa, get the fuck out of here,” he hisses to the girl behind him. She attempts to scramble up onto the back of the black stallion and loses her balance, falling back onto the ground. The Hound curses and the stallion paws the earth nervously as the nag whinnies.

The fat man and the young squire laugh, but the other three fighters are spreading out along the side of the hill, trying to encircle the Hound and Sansa. “So she _is_ your own true lady love! Well, there’s no accounting for women’s taste in men. If she’d chosen your brother, she’d be sleeping in a comfortable suite in Harrenhall, instead of out here in the woods with you.”

“If she’d chosen his brother, she’d be sleeping in the ground by now, along with the other poor sots he burnt up south of here!” The gold-toothed man hisses, and they all laugh. “But it’s too bad he’s not here to witness his little brother’s death. Maybe he can help with the girl though.” The Hound glares acid at them all.

Joffrey is torn as to whether he should kick the helm again and catch the attention of the soldiers. He knows that it might take all five of the men to defeat the Hound, even unarmored and unhorsed, but then he also wants to be rescued right _now_ , by whichever fighter can unbind him first. He makes his decision, then wriggles around and bangs the helm against the breastplate. 

The noise takes all the soldiers by surprise, and as they turn their heads in Joffrey’s direction the Hound boosts Sansa onto the horse. He puts his fist into the stallion’s flank and the beast takes off toward the stream, the darkness enveloping rider and horse as the hoofbeats fade. The other horse, surprised, bolts off in a different direction.

 _No, you have to get her!_ Joffrey groans in frustration, through his gag. She cannot escape, not after all that she did to him. He will see her suffer, he will see her burn with the Hound --

“Woad, fetch a horse and go after her. The girl could barely control that courser, you’ll catch up to her soon enough,” directs the mace wielder as he takes another step forward. Woad scurries back up the hill, slipping in the mud a few times, as he makes his way back toward the soldier’s camp.

“That’s a mistake,” rasps the Hound, eyeing the remaining three fighters and trying to keep his back to all of them. “Now you’ll all die a much slower death.”

“And Foley, find out who is in the bushes.” The squire approaches, a dagger out, and drags Joffrey from the thatch by his bound feet. He cuts the gag from Joffrey’s mouth and Joffrey inhales a sharp, fresh breath of air.

Suddenly, he is once again as powerful as the King he was on the night of Blackwater, when he commanded his soldiers to fling boulders from the trebuchets, crushing the dregs of Stannis’ fleet. “I’m Joffrey the first, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms!” A regal voice that he hardly remembers as his own comes pouring out of his dry mouth. “I command you to kill this deserter and bring me back the Stark bitch. Succeed and you shall have all the titles and gold you can imagine.” 

“The Hound and the Lady Sansa really kidnapped the bloody King!” the squire cries in disbelief, and even through all of Joffrey’s fright and rage, he has the impulse to cut Foley’s impertinent tongue out. The three soldiers gasp and exchange nervous glances.

The Hound snorts. “You can have the bloody pretender ‘king.’ After I stick you all like the pigs you are, I’ll be following my lady to safety.” He lifts his weapon, and the two men with swords charge him. The Hound meets them blow for blow as the fat man with the mace holds back.

Joffrey tries to keep one eye on the battle while the drunken squire works unbearably slowly to release the bindings. The gold toothed man, who is almost completely unarmored, takes fewer than a dozen fruitless swings before the Hound slices his leg off at the knee and stabs him in the gut. As the mortally wounded man wails, the Hound turns his attention to the other attacker. The soldier is tall and wears ringmail protecting his torso, but the Hound’s speed and sobriety quickly cause the man to lose ground. The Hound corrals him toward a thicket on the other side of the clearing. The man with the mace still keeps his distance.

“Hurry up, you stupid brat,” Joffrey hisses at the squire, who is sawing slowly through the many ropes binding his legs and reeking of alcohol. Maybe once the squire frees him, he can steal one of the soldiers’ horses and flee while they are engaging the Hound. It’s not ideal -- he’d rather have an escort of guards to deliver him to King’s Landing -- but at the rate things are going, the Hound might not leave anyone left to protect him.

The soldier fighting the Hound makes a superficial slash across the Hound’s chest, but the move leaves his side open, which spells his death. The Hound slides his sword through the man’s ribcage and yanks it out, spraying black blood across the moonlit earth. “Come on, fat man. You’re next,” the Hound growls.

“Nothing better than going up against a cocky swordsman,” the man warbles as he sets his spiked ball swinging around on its chain. “But it’s such a hassle to clean their brains from my morning star.” The man makes a wide swipe that misses the Hound’s nose by inches. “Pity you dodged. I might have improved that ugly face of yours.”

The squire finally gets Joffrey’s legs free and starts working on his hands. “Nevermind that, let’s get up the hill, NOW!” he commands.

The squire balks. “But --”

“I’m your King! You have to do what I say!” Joffrey screams in his face, no longer caring that the Hound might hear him. The traitor is well distracted and won’t be able to chase after him.  
The squire helps Joffrey to his feet, and Joffrey tries to run up the slippery hill as mace and sword clink together nearby. He only gets a few feet before he hears the sound of approaching hoofbeats from the direction of the soldier’s camp. _Good, they have found Sansa already. I can’t wait to see the look on her face,_ he thinks.

The horse crests the hill, but the soldier’s campfire enshrouds rider and beast alike in silhouette. Then the rider spurs the horse downward, and the moonlight illuminates them both. It is Sansa and the black stallion, and they are galloping right toward Joffrey.

Joffrey pisses his breeches a second time as the horse runs at him, and he falls to the ground, certain he is done for. But instead, the squire next to him is crushed into the mud by the stallion’s hooves. 

The stallion doesn’t even break stride as it tramples the young drunkard and heads straight into the battle raging between the mace wielder and the Hound. As the fat man turns around toward the sound of hoofbeats, the Hound takes the opportunity to slice off the hand that clutches the weapon, then steps aside as the stallion runs down its second victim. Its front hoof catches the man in the chest and makes a sickening crunch. It finally wheels around and stops in front of its master.

“Sandor!” Sansa cries, and reaches for him in an entreaty to help her down. “You’re hurt!”

“Stay up there, girl, I’m fine! Where is the man who went after you?” He shouts at her, wheeling around wildly.

“He -- well, he and his horse rode off a cliff,” Sansa answers, and Joffrey swears he hears a touch of sheepishness in her voice. “Stranger sensed the danger and stopped in time, but the soldier’s horse kept going.” She wipes the hair out of her face with her forearm. “They are both dead.” Only after this confirmation does the Hound pull Sansa off the horse.

Bile rises in Joffrey’s throat. It cannot be. All of his rescuers, dead and gone? And three of them bested by _Sansa Stark_? He turns and runs, his hands still bound. There are still horses over the hill. If only he can get to them --

“YOU!” she screeches across the blood soaked clearing, and he hears her footsteps crunching through the leaves in the mud toward him. He pumps his legs but keeps losing his balance. _Concentrate, to the camp, you can make it --_

A small hand grasps the matted hair on the back of Joffrey’s head and jerks him down into the dirt.

“They might have killed him because of you! He didn’t even have his armor on!” she screams at Joffrey and punches him in the face. He raises his bound hands up but she thumps her knee onto his chest. Her fists are small and she is weak, but her knuckles catch Joffrey’s loosest tooth and it finally pops out, filling his mouth with blood. 

The Hound finally pulls her off and she grabs him around the neck and starts crying in earnest. The blood from the slash on his chest stains her tunic. He pats her back gingerly, and the expression on his face is utter confusion. 

*_*_*_*_*_*

They hastily pack up and ride through the night and the next day, their provisions replenished from the dead soldiers’ camp. When they finally rest late the next night at the foot of a cliff, they don’t even bother to have supper. Joffrey is so tired and his mouth hurts so much from the broken tooth that he wouldn’t want to eat anyway.

It’s as cold as some of the nights back when the three of them were camping out on the rocky, foggy fields and all slept under the same blankets, but Sansa has refused to help Joffrey with anything since the fight, and the Hound has not tried to make her. The Hound simply tosses one of the crimson Lannister horse blankets that they stole from the camp over Joffrey’s bound up body, and Joffrey shivers with exhaustion and hunger and fear and rage.

The Hound and Sansa huddle together though, in a thick nest of blankets and cloaks close to the warm fire. They stare into the flames, their shoulders pressed close together. After a while, Sansa turns toward the Hound and starts gently touching his scars. 

He gives her a grimace and grunts, “What are you doing, little bird?” 

Sansa doesn’t respond, just looks at him with those big vapid blue eyes and her hand on his burned cheek. And then slowly, she leans toward him and presses her lips against the scarred side of his jawline. 

Joffrey’s eyes bulge in shock.

The Hound freezes, his jaw clenched, and Sansa pulls away, gazing at him questioningly. "Don't. Do that again,” he says, his voice a low crackle, like ice falling into a stone crevice. 

Sansa gazes at him sadly. “But --”

He shrugs her hand off of him and crosses his arms over his massive chest, but doesn't get up, or even move out of the warmth of the blanket. "I don't need your bloody buggering soft maiden's kisses," he mutters.

"I just --"

"Just what? Wanted to reward your dog for his loyalty? Like when you kissed me in front of _His Grace_?" he accuses, spitting out Joffrey’s title like phlegm from the back of the throat.

"No," she objects, the word hard, a kernel of gravel under a bare heel.

The Hound huffs and stares back into the fire. Sansa does the same.

Finally, she sighs and leans her head on his huge shoulder. Quiet and serious, she explains, "I wanted to kiss you when he wasn't watching."

The Hound doesn't respond at first, just tilts his head slightly to the side. Finally, he exhales, long and ragged. He uncrosses his arms and slides one arm around her waist and pulls her tightly to him until her face is squished against his chest, and he leans down and puts his nose in her scalp like he did that day on the road so long ago.

Joffrey realizes as ice settles in his belly that he has been wrong about the Hound and Sansa all along. They haven’t been desperately trying to use one another for their own purposes. Something much worse has been happening. 

They have been falling in love.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

[to be continued]


	5. Forest, Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Forgot to mention in the previous installment that if you want to see a “cut scene” from this fic, check out my SanSan drabbles collection, “Seven and Two,” Chapter 2: Fascinated: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4184910/chapters/9464658 
> 
> Warning: Some gory, quite gross stuff but nothing especially violent, and language.

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

*_*_*_*_*

It cannot have been more than a few days, but Joffrey can no longer remember what his life was like before his tooth was knocked out and was replaced by an all-consuming pain that engulfs his entire face, that hinders him from chewing anything that harder than the dead soldiers’ water-softened bread, that makes him howl in his dreams and awaken with tears streaming down his face. The hole in his gum throbs constantly and fills his mouth with the iron taste of blood and the putrid sweet rot that has set into the cavity. Joffrey’s thoughts are hazy and unfocused, but the hot ache in his jaw remains crystal clear.

The pain, combined with the shame of his third and most spectacular failed escape attempt, makes him act sloppy, but he can no longer help it. When Sansa and the Hound irritate him, which is pretty much all the time, he says things that he would have kept to himself when he still thought that a rescue was a realistic possibility. But neither of his captors seem to care much anymore what he says to them. One afternoon, between mouthfuls of the gloppy mashed bread that Sansa forcibly scoops into his mouth while the Hound sharpens his sword, Joffrey tells them that they disgust him, that they will die for their treason, that he knows all about what they’ve been doing together. 

Sansa stops feeding Joffrey and stands up; a shadow of fear passes across her face. She glances over to the Hound, who has turned around and is looking at them with his one good eyebrow raised. She stares back down at Joffrey with a calm, hard gaze. “You don’t know anything about anyone,” she growls in a tone that eerily mimics the Hound’s voice, and she throws his food in the dirt, then stalks away and plunks herself down next to the warrior and lays her head on his shoulder as though Joffrey weren’t even there. The Hound shrugs and almost laughs, then turns back around and sweeps his smudged, stained Kingsguard cloak over the girl.

Joffrey also hears the Hound and Sansa talking about him constantly, although the pain in his jaw is so bad now that he suspects that sometimes he might be hallucinating their whispers. Each night they sit close together after they’ve set up camp, glancing furtively toward Joffrey to see if he’s fallen asleep. More often than not they lay the horse blankets side by side, and they lean against one another through the night as one keeps watch and the other sleeps. Joffrey knows this because his mouth agonizes him to the point that he can hardly sleep anymore.

During a bone chilling rainstorm the three of them huddle together in a shallow cave well hidden by heavy brush, and Joffrey dozes off with his musty cloak pulled far over his head in an attempt to stop his near-constant shivering. He jolts awake when thunder claps overhead, and from under his hood he sees the Hound brush Sansa’s ragged hair away from her filthy face and give her an intense gaze as though she were still a beautiful maid and not the skinny louse-infested traitor she has become, then gently press his horrible scarred lips against her thin chapped ones. Sansa blushes a blotchy red beneath the grime, and she beams at the Hound like he is a handsome highborn lord instead of the mangy maimed dog he has always been. Their actions should enrage Joffrey, and he wants to feel that old powerful feeling course through his veins once again, but the pain and hunger and cold dampens even that righteous anger. Sansa leans her cheek against the Hound’s chest, but then another round of thunder rolls past and the horses spook outside the cave and the Hound rushes out to calm them. 

Joffrey doesn’t catch the two of them at it again, but he’s certain that when he’s sleeping they share more of those chaste kisses that the Hound so recently scorned. Joffrey can hardly summon the will to care, though some small part of him is surprised that the Hound doesn’t ever drag Sansa off into the bushes to finally claim her maidenhead, now that she’s obviously so wet and willing for him.

The traitors don’t spend all of their evenings gazing lovingly at one another, though. Sometimes they growl and hiss harshly at one another, mostly things that Joffrey doesn’t catch since he has started to drift in and out of consciousness more often, and is in so much pain, and is so damned cold all the time, and on those nights the Hound spits into the fire and Sansa purses her lips and crosses her arms and falls silent. On the mornings afterward, the Hound sneers even more than usual and Sansa unnecessarily bangs around as she packs up camp, and Joffrey gets a flare of hope that maybe they will tear one another apart after all. But then they get back on the big black horse together and soon they are all lingering touches and longing glances once again.

Every so often it occurs to Joffrey that his infection might be rather grave, but then the pain twists and makes him forget about anything besides the moment of horror in which he is existing. Eventually it gets so bad that he can no longer eat at all, and he only bothers to take sips of water when he having a sweating spell between the bouts of shivering. The putrifying wound and the accompanying headache force him to keep his eyes closed as much as possible, so he often dozes for lengths of time that he can no longer determine, and he awakens in his saddle or on the ground or tied to a tree with no recollection of who put him there or what came before.

Joffrey awakens in this manner to an increasingly rare moment of clarity. The sky is the color of lead, and the wind rustles yellow-tinged tree leaves overhead and thick green-black bushes nearby. Someone has propped Joffrey against a rock not far from a clear stream, where Sansa is filling the waterskins. The Hound crouches next to her, examining the contents of one of the sacks of food they stole from the Lannister soldiers’ camp. He curses loudly and mutters something that Joffrey doesn’t catch. 

Sansa sets a filled skin beside her on the ground. “It’s not my fault he won’t eat.”

The Hound grunts and stands up, his joints popping loudly. “You’re the one who knocked his tooth out.”

“You loosened it up for me,” she responds nonchalantly.

“I had planned to leave him back at the Red Keep, little bird, but now that we’re only days from Riverrun, it would be a shame to have our valuable hostage die on us.”

Sansa sighs, and when she speaks her voice is colored with resentment. “I’m sure that if he lives, you will receive a larger reward that you can use to run off to Pentos.”

The Hound glares down at her, clenching and unclenching his fists, and stays silent a long time. When he opens his mouth he clips his words, harsh and angry. “Don’t be a stupid child.”

Sansa whips her head up toward him and sets the rest of the waterskins aside. “I’m no child,” she objects angrily. “I beat the king bloody with my bare hands. I killed -- I killed three men.” She stands up and pokes a finger against the Hound’s breastplate. “I saved your life.”

 

The Hound laughs bitterly. “Anyone can thrash a hogtied weakling. My _horse_ killed three men. And you would never have been around to save my life if I hadn’t saved yours half a dozen times back in King’s Landing.” 

Sansa crosses her arms over the new leather breastplate that she stole off the Lannister squire that she trampled into the mud. “That’s unfair,” she says, and narrows her eyes at him. “I’m no child,” she repeats quietly, petulantly.

The Hound scoffs and turns his back to her. “When you accuse me of stealing the king just to get a few more golden dragons, you sound like a stupid, petty little girl.”

“You seem to think I am grown enough to kiss and take in your arms after Joffrey falls asleep each night,” she spits at the Hound’s back, her voice like the hiss of a sword being unsheathed. 

The Hound whips back around, throwing his arms in the air in exasperation. “You say that like I’ve fucked you under every bush in the Trident. I haven’t so much as cupped a teat under that squire’s tunic of yours.”

“Not yet,” she replies primly, and smooths down her breeches as though they were the skirts of a gown.

“You started up the kisses, Sansa, not me,” the Hound growls angrily and stalks toward her. He grabs Sansa by a shoulder and her eyes widen as he points a gloved finger in her face, almost shouting now, “I could have taken you in King’s Landing, when I was drunk and battle crazy and you were singing that pretty little song with my -- with my -- knife against your --” he breaks off, then looks down at his fingers grasping Sansa’s shoulder. He yanks his hand off of her as though she has suddenly morphed into red-hot iron; he steps back, stares at the ground. He lowers his voice as he recovers, muttering, “Instead I begged for your bloody forgiveness and swore to do anything for you, and you told me to steal the _king _and take you north and keep you safe, and I have done _everything_ you asked. So what, exactly, must I do to satisfy you, _my lady_?”__

__Sansa ignores his sarcastic tone. “You can ask my brother for a lordship, and to fight under his banner, like I told you earlier.”_ _

__He looks back up at her, apparently perplexed. “Why do you think I would want to be responsible for a bunch of starving smallfolk and fight even more pointless battles?”_ _

__Now Sansa is the one who throws her arms in the air. “Because with a lordship and enough heroic deeds, you can have me!”_ _

__The Hound is struck dumb, his eyes wide, as though he has never considered that Sansa would want such a thing. Finally he laughs again, cruelly. “You’re no idiot, Sansa, so use your head. Your brother won’t give me anything but a bag of gold and a swift kick in the arse out the castle gate, and he won’t give you anything but a husband with strategically located lands.”_ _

__“Don’t you want to try for me, though?” Sansa says, her voice cracking on the last word. Her eyes redden and shimmer, and she shrugs. “After all this I couldn’t bear to be with anyone but you.” She takes a step closer to the Hound and looks down at her feet. “Is it -- do you not want -- don’t you want to be with me?”_ _

__The Hound slumps where he stands, his posture embodying miserable defeat. He reaches out and strokes a tendril of Sansa’s hair, and she sighs. “More than anything, little bird.” He wraps his arms around her waist and slowly leans his face down, pressing a tentative kiss on her lips as she sways into his embrace. He touches his forehead to hers, then brushes his lips against the part of her hair. “But I don’t dare hope for that.”_ _

___These two would put a mummer troop’s performance to shame_ , Joffrey thinks distantly, and he chuckles hoarsely, then a little louder. Soon, real, raucous laughter wells up from deep in his belly, and Sansa and the Hound turn toward him in surprise and jump away from one another, which makes Joffrey howl outright. He laughs so hard that he flops onto his side, his bindings and his weakness preventing him from righting himself. The look on the traitors’ faces make it clear that they think he has gone mad. But he is not crazy, even though he can’t stop the maniacal laughter from bubbling out of his mouth, even though the very act of it feels like his father’s war hammer is hitting him in the face over and over and over again. Sansa and the Hound are the mad ones, those two imbeciles with their hopeless, pathetic love that cannot go anywhere, with their highborn hostage, out here in the middle of this war-torn country that is missing a king, or perhaps has too many of them. _ _

__Joffrey isn’t quite sure how it happens, but he finds himself staring up at the sky with Sansa leaning over him and the Hound’s cool palm against his forehead. It smells like horses and moss and wet leather. “He’s feverish,” the Hound says, and Joffrey thinks, _Well, I could have told you that,_ but only weak leftover giggles come out. The Hound sticks his finger in Joffrey’s mouth and the pain shoots so sharply through his jaw that Joffrey screams, and the Hound scrambles back, his face contorted in disgust. _ _

__Sansa jumps back and Joffrey hears her retching onto the dirt. Soon she returns to his field of vision, pinching her nostrils shut between her fingers. “Gods, is that smell coming from his mouth?” she asks wondrously._ _

__“Give me your kerchief, Sansa,” the Hound says grimly, and she pulls a dirty cloth out of her sleeve and hands it to him. He ties it over his nose and puts his knee on Joffrey’s chest, then leverages Joffrey’s jaw open with both thumbs. Joffrey groans and tries to writhe away but only succeeds in grinding more mud into the hair on the back of his head._ _

__Through the haze of anguish, Joffrey registers the grim look in the Hound’s eyes. “We have to lance that boil and clean it out or he’ll be dead in less than a week.” He gives Sansa a handful of directions that she rushes to follow._ _

__Joffrey squeezes his eyes shut. King Joffrey Baratheon, the first of his name, will die in the forest from a wound inflicted by a teenaged girl. It sounds more like the death he expected for his dwarf uncle. He wants to cry, but more mad-sounding guffaws pour out of his mouth._ _

__“You think that is funny, Your Grace? We drag you halfway across Westeros and starve and fight only for you to die a few miles from King Robb? We won’t be letting that happen.”_ _

__

__“Fuck you, Hound,” Joff spits, his words garbled, and he cackles. “Fuck you and your redhaired traitoress whore.”_ _

__The Hound only rolls his eyes and checks on Sansa’s progress, which somehow finally extinguishes Joffrey’s seemingly endless flame of mirth._ _

__Sansa returns holding another grungy rag, a skin of wine stolen from the dead soldiers, and her dagger, its blade smoking ominously. From somewhere in the fog of his brain, Joffrey realizes that it may be possible to feel even more pain than he is currently experiencing._ _

__The Hound assesses Sansa’s supplies and jerks his head in approval. “He’s going to thrash, so I will have to hold him down and tell you what to do.” Sansa nods and crouches down._ _

__The Hound straddles Joffrey’s chest and bound arms and pulls his mouth open again, which causes the tears to flow freely. “Quickly now, Sansa, the knife,” the Hound urges._ _

__With a shaking hand, Sansa places the searing blade in Joffrey’s mouth, against his wound, and Joffrey emits an animal scream. The dagger burns as Sansa cuts into the decaying flesh; blood and pus pours onto his tongue and down his throat. Joffrey screeches against the Hound’s fingers and chokes as the infection drains down his gullet._ _

__“Soak the cloth with the wine and squeeze it into his mouth -- yes, like that,” commands the Hound, and the sour taste of the cheap drink invades Joffrey’s mouth and goes up his nose. Joffrey sputters between screams, and he wriggles, and finally the Hound lets him up. He rolls to his side and pukes up all the blood and pus and wine and when that is all gone, heave after heave of green bile. He retches until it seems like he has expelled every piece of mushy bread, every wrinkled plum, every raw mushroom, every bit of poison that entered his body and overtaken his life since Sansa and the Hound took him hostage, and finally he is a husk, a vessel good only for containing pain in its purest form._ _

__The Hound pushes Joffrey to a sitting position and keeps him upright, then holds the wine skin against his lips. “Wash your mouth out with more wine, then spit it out.” Joffrey does as he is told, and his spittle dribbles down his throat and blends in with the other stains at the neckline of his long-ruined tunic. He tries to remember when his squires helped him into this garment the night of the battle of Blackwater, and he finds that he cannot recall much of that night at all. Suddenly it is as if he is looking at someone else from somewhere else in the clearing. He is even beyond the pain; he doesn’t feel anything; he simply sees two ragged enemies standing over the battered body that used to belong to the King of Westeros._ _

__Joffrey feels darkness spiraling down, pulling him in, but he manages to whisper through his raw lips, with his blood-and-wine coated tongue, just loudly enough for his captors to hear, “I hate you.” Then he passes out cold._ _

__*_*_*_*_*_*_ _

__He dreams of the Hound, scarred and fierce, in the fine white-enameled armor of the Kingsguard, and Sansa, pretty as she ever was in a long silver dress with a crown of flowers on her head and a yellow and black cloak streaming behind her, riding a black wolf the size of an elephant. They drag Joffrey behind them on a rope until he is nothing but blackened bones, with a tarnished golden crown clamped around his toothless skull._ _

__*_*_*_*_*_*_ _

__Joffrey awakens with a headache that reminds him of the worst hangover he ever had combined with the biggest hit he ever took jousting. But he is no longer freezing. Experimentally, he probes the hole in his mouth where his the abscess was with his tongue; amazingly, it’s only a little sore._ _

__He is still bound, laying under the canopy of some trees that he doesn’t recognize; their leaves glow golden and russet in the rays of the morning sunlight. The air is so sharp and clear it hurts his lungs. Even the dawn seems different, though maybe it is because his vision is no longer distorted from the fever._ _

__All of the clarity is too much, and Joffrey closes his eyes again. He wonders how long he’s been out; wonders how long he’s been away from King’s Landing. It must have been a couple months by now, maybe even longer. He wonders who has been running the kingdom in his absence._ _

__A realization strikes him that is nearly as painful as his formerly infected wound. Someone in his family has been ruling the lands just fine without him. Sure, the Lannisters will pay the ransom and agree to some terms to get him back -- it would be too embarrassing for them not to do so -- but they won’t want want him, no,they won’t let him return to rule his kingdom. After all, no lords would follow a king who was kidnapped out of his own castle by his own supposedly loyal subjects, a tale that the Northerners will be sure to spread as soon as they learn of it. His family will find a way to keep him alive, but they will pack him off one way or another. They will send him away as an envoy to the Free Cities, perhaps, or -- he shudders -- try to get him to take the black, like he promised he would do for Eddard Stark. Joffrey’s family will do whatever it takes to retain their grip on Westeros, and to do so, they will need to keep him as far away from the Iron Throne as possible._ _

__The thought should make Joffrey want to tear his hair out, but mostly he just feels empty and tired and relieved that his mouth is just a little sore. He wonders if King Robb will give him a tower with a soft clean straw bed and three meals per day while he awaits his fate, and the notion strongly appeals to him._ _

__There is one bit of business for which his resolve has only strengthened, however. He will destroy Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane, or at least any happiness at which they are undeservingly grasping. Joffrey opens his eyes to the startling sunlight, and looks down at the campsite where his captors are preparing for the day. He smirks. He knows just what he will do when they hand him over to Robb._ _

__Sansa is getting breakfast together. The Hound approaches her and hands her some of the dried beef they stole off the soldiers. He puts his hand on her shoulder and she looks up at him, not with the fear she had in his presence back in King’s Landing, not with that simpering coy look she was giving him in recent days, not with the anger she was directing at him when they were arguing. She gives him a calm smile, one that the Hound returns._ _

__They must have sorted things out somehow while Joffrey was fighting the fever. Perhaps the Hound promised to find a way to marry Sansa like she wanted. Perhaps Sansa agreed to run off with him to one of the Free Cities. Perhaps they have simply reached an understanding of their predicament and have decided to see where it will take them._ _

__It doesn’t matter. Joffrey will crush them. They have taken his kingdom, his power, his pride from him. There is nothing left in his life but revenge._ _

__*_*_*_*_*_ _

__[to be continued]_ _


	6. River, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Reminder that I made a lot of canon sacrifices in favor of telling this story, including that various characters are in locations that are different from canon as a result of Joffrey being kidnapped (kingdom in chaos, etc). This is mostly based on book canon but there's a little bit of show canon in here too ... don't think it should be too confusing though. Truly, I am so so appreciative when you leave comments on this fic, and I will do my best to respond (when I am not writing more chapters!!)
> 
> Gendrya tag: Did you click on this fic for the Gendrya ship and see the note in Forest 1 that this is where it starts? Sweet! I hope you enjoy!

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Joffrey catches sight of the outriders ambling down the wide road below long before his captors do. Even this far away, he can spot how the red Tully trout leaps proudly on the blue banner borne by the sentry in the front. He’s amused by how long it takes Sansa and the Hound to notice the riders, considering that the two of them spend pretty much all of their time congratulating themselves on how adept they are at living in the forest. But Joffrey is the only one who is still astride his horse, since the two traitors dismounted earlier to lead the beasts down the steep and narrow game path through the trees. 

Finally, Sansa notices the soldiers and yelps. She rushes to hand the Hound the reins of Joffrey’s horse, and together, the two of them hurriedly rehearse how they will meet the men down on the road. And then, off script, the Hound gathers the girl in his arms, as though her former betrothed weren’t tied up and watching them less than a yard away. Sansa begins to protest, jerking her head toward Joffrey, but the Hound growls, “Bugger him. I won’t get to touch you again for a while, little bird, so I won’t miss this last chance.”

Sansa nods, and without another glance in Joffrey’s direction, stands up on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around the Hound’s thick neck and closes her eyes and plants a soft little kiss on his ugly burned lips. 

The Hound’s eyes pop open at that, but he pulls her hard against him all the same. Joffrey glares at the spectacle of the crusty battleworn old dog tenderly embracing the ratty highborn tart. Once, the dichotomy between the Hound’s fearful visage and Sansa’s beauty might have been noteworthy, but by now they have been on the road and exposed to the elements for so many months that Joffrey can’t decide which of them looks worse.

With a final kiss, they break apart, and the Hound pulls Joffrey off his horse and starts doubling up the bindings. Joffrey barely pays attention. Soon, he will finally taste the sweet nectar of revenge -- or the bitter draught of complete, utter failure.

From somewhere deep in the forest, a wild, inconsolable howl echoes. Joffrey thinks of Sansa’s dead direwolf, and a spike of ice pierces his heart.

*_*_*_*_*  
*_*_*_*_*

Arya lets her lengthening dark hair fall in front of her face as she shovels up a scoop of breakfast porridge. From across the high table, Lord Roose Bolton is staring at her again with his cold colorless eyes, as if trying to jog his memory of where he might have seen her before. If Lord Bolton figures out that she is the same girl who served him back at Harrenhall, he might also realize that she killed his guardsman and kidnapped his smith and his pastry chef, and maybe he will ask Robb to punish her by marrying her to his bastard who is keeping Winterfell safe from the Ironborn. But then Arya’s water dancing teacher Syrio once told her that men see what they expect, so maybe Bolton doesn’t suspect anything. After all, when she served him, she was Nan, the scrawny cupbearer, but here at Riverrun she is the sister of the King in the North, a marriageable maiden of fifteen whose hand is constantly in play as a potential alliance. 

Arya is pretty sure that Lord Bolton has not recognized her, but she doesn’t want to take any chances, so she turns away and pretends to listen to Robb’s pretty new Queen Jeyne, who is telling Arya’s mother some story about why seashells are on her family’s sigil. 

That proves quite boring quite quickly, so Arya glances behind her, over where Needle hangs from one of the wall pegs behind the high table. It’s not the real Needle -- not the one Jon gave her, which Ser Gregor’s men stole from her -- it’s just some skinny thing that Gendry forged for her while they were hiding out with the Brotherhood, but it makes her feel safe. “It’s just for now, until you get your little sword back from the Mountain’s men,” Gendry told her when he handed it over to her, his cheeks still red from the heat of the coals, and at the time Arya couldn’t tell whether he was mocking her or being kind, but she was grateful for the weapon and snatched it up all the same. With her fake Needle, even Roose Bolton doesn’t scare her. She’s used a sword to kill men before, and she will do it again if she has to. It might come to that, depending on who Robb selects to marry her.

From the corner of her eye she sees that Bolton has turned away from her and has begun relating to the Greatjon the latest rumors from King’s Landing. It’s something about how Lord Tywin is trying to get the Small Council and the High Septon to declare Joffrey incapable of ruling on account of being inexplicably absent, and crown Tommen in his stead. “And how did _you_ come across such an interesting rumor?” the Greatjon growls, his words booming across the great hall and sounding suspicious as he slurps up a soft boiled egg.

Lord Bolton narrows his eyes. “I dislike what you imply, my lord,” he replies in that dreadful, soft voice of his, and delicately wipes his catfish mouth. Arya shudders, remembering what happened to people who Lord Bolton disliked back at Harrenhall. 

Robb looks up from his breakfast and glares at his two bannermen. Arya watches as the King moves his hand up as if to adjust his crown, but he remembers himself at the last moment and pretends that he was just going to scratch his ear. Her brother’s voice comes out deep and sharp as he admonishes the lords. “No one’s implying anything. Lord Umber, you are ever watchful of my safety, for which I am deeply grateful. Lord Bolton, your informers in King’s Landing provide knowledge that will be the key to our victory. But I will not tolerate any fighting between you. We must trust one another to save the North.”

The Greatjon grimaces and chomps down on a thick slice of buttered toast. Bolton simply raises his eyebrows. Arya is certain that she can see the faint imprint on her one-time lord’s throat where the maester places the leeches.

“Your brother sounds more like a king every day,” murmurs Arya’s mother beside her. She glances down at Arya’s breeches and ringmail shirt. “If only you would act more like the sister of a king.”

 _Not this again,_ Arya thinks glumly, hanging her head and looking down at the congealing eggs. Catelyn tried to make her wear a dress not even a day after the Brotherhood got their reward for dropping her off at Riverrun, but Arya had remembered the way that Gendry had laughed and laughed when Lady Smallwood had dressed her in gown, and Arya resolutely refused to go through that again. Her mother alternately cried and issued threats, and finally the two of them worked out a compromise where Arya would wear breeches and tunics and her sword during the day, but would appear in ladies’ clothing at suppertime. Arya hates every second of it, but she agreed to the deal when she recalled all the lonely frightening nights when she wanted only to be back home in Winterfell with her family, with her mother most of all. She still isn’t home, but she has returned to the safety of her pack, and she won’t lose everything again over some stupid skirts.

A serving girl clears Arya’s nearly empty plate away, and Arya excuses herself from the table. As she leaves, she overhears her mother mutter something to Robb about needing to find a husband for her sooner rather than later.

“I have too many lords demanding to have weddings and not enough sisters to give them, Mother. Let us pray for Sansa’s return, and keep our allies at bay a bit longer,” he grumbles, waving off a serving boy offering a platter of grilled trout. 

Robb’s response shuts Catelyn up. Arya’s mother, along with just about everybody else, believes Sansa to be dead and gone. 

As far as Arya and anyone else has heard, Sansa disappeared during the Battle of Blackwater along with King Joffrey. Half of Robb’s bannermen swear that Joffrey flung her off the Red Keep’s walls and into the sea and then accidentally tripped and fell in himself, and the other half say that Sansa somehow managed to kill the king herself and then tried to run off, and that surely she perished during the chaos. In any case, just about everyone agrees that Sansa is as dead as a doornail.

Thinking of poor Sansa always hits Arya like a punch in the stomach. Sansa was a tedious bore in King’s Landing, back when she still thought that Joffrey pissed rosewater, but she didn’t deserve to be left behind to suffer the cruelties of the Lannisters. Sometimes Arya lies awake at night, trying to work out a way that she could have snuck back into the Red Keep to smuggle Sansa out of there. It would have been futile, though. Back then Arya was just a little girl; she hadn’t even killed one person yet, and she didn’t know how to survive the way she had learned during those years on the road. Besides, there was no way she could have convinced Sansa to pretend to be part of the Night’s Watch recruits, or eat pigeons and wormy corn and bugs, or act like a servant until they could kill enough guards to escape Harrenhall. Even if Arya had somehow managed to rescue Sansa from King’s Landing, surely they would both have been killed sometime during their flight back home.

Arya buckles her swordbelt around her waist and wanders down the servants’ tunnel, through the kitchen and out toward the hall that leads to the yard, not really having an idea of where she is going or what she will do when she gets there. She needs to slash something, needs to dance out all the anxiety that built up within her during breakfast. 

She creeps into the narrow maintenance yard, which is still chilly in the shadow of the castle’s walls. Several recently delivered casks of wine and sacks of grain have been stacked up next to the door, waiting for appropriate storage. The clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoes against the stones and mortar, so Arya turns the corner and heads toward the forge. 

“Hey,” Arya shouts to Gendry as she approaches the open-walled buliding. Although the morning is crisp, Gendry’s shirt has sopped up sweat under his arms and down along his broad back. Dozens of new horseshoes are hung up to cool on a rack nearby. Arya leans up against one of the thick logs that holds up the roof. Sometimes Gendry is good for distracting her from her nervous thoughts about her family, but other times he just irritates her more.

Gendry stretches his back and sets down a big set of pinchers. Arya notes that his right arm has bulked up grotesquely in the weeks since they arrived together at Riverrun, as much from practicing his craft as from getting three hearty meals per day. “M’lady,” Gendry responds with a crooked smile, and Arya realizes with dismay that it will be an annoying kind of day with him. He knows that she hates to be called that, but he still says it, even though he was part of her pack, once, before he knew she was a highborn princess. The way he pronounces the word always rings like an accusation in Arya’s ear, as though he agrees with her mother that she should wear stupid dresses all the time, even though he would just laugh at the way she looks in them. Arya curls her lip in disgust and the corner of Gendry’s mouth twitches upward before he remembers that he has to act like a lowly servant now. “What brings m’lady down here this morning?”

Arya walks in through the little half-door, even though Gendry didn’t invite her to do so. _Why have I come?_ she thinks, and wonders why being back with her family isn’t as perfect and as easy as she thought it would be when it had been her heart’s greatest desire, her only goal more important than killing everyone who hurt her pack. She kicks the toe of her boot against a broken door hinge on the ground that is waiting for Gendry’s repairs. “Everyone says Sansa is dead,” she mutters, her chin against her chest. “I’m sure she is alive though.” 

Arya has told Gendry a little about her wolf dreams, to help him understand how Robb and Grey Wind fight together, are a part of one another. She has not told Gendry that she has smelled Sansa’s scent, all mixed up with horses and other humans, and that she is certain that Sansa is trying to find her way back to the family. She is pretty sure that Gendry has figured some of it out though. “What do you think?”

Gendry wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, and a flake of soot streaks across his face. Arya can see a little of his muscled chest in the open collar of his shirt above where his thick leather apron hangs, and strangely, her face flushes. “Everyone said that you were dead, too, and they were all wrong,” he replies, squinting up at the crenelations on the ridge of the castle walls. It’s not an answer to the question but it does lift Arya’s spirits a little.

Maybe he won’t be as stupid today as he often can be. Maybe he will even do what she asks of him for once. “Take a break. Spar with me,” she demands, and she grips her sword hilt as an invitation. When she sees his face, though, she knows he will refuse as usual. Sometimes he tells her that he can’t hit a lady, with his eyes crinkling in amusement as she glares at him, and sometimes he purses his lips like a sour old septon and tells her that he doesn’t want to play around like a little child when he has men’s work to attend to. 

Today, he just sighs and hangs his head, defeated, and tells her, “I’ll make you a wolf’s head helm if you just stop asking me to fight you.”

Arya’s eyes practically bulge out of her skull, her worries about her family all but blown away by his promise. “A helm! Will you really?” She actually jumps for joy and accidentally knocks over a half-finished set of candlesticks, but even that embarrassment doesn’t temper her excitement. A helm is much better than a sparring session with some blacksmith who doesn’t really even know how to fight, even if he did kill almost as many men as she did when they were traveling together.

Gendry flattens his lips and rolls his eyes as though he is already regretting his offer. “Yes, I will. But if you ask me to spar with you even one more time, ever again, I will melt the whole thing into scrap metal, and that sword of yours too, understand?”

“Right, of course,” she replies cooperatively, then immediately insists that he take her head measurements at this very moment to be sure that he will really make the helm for her. 

Gendry almost looks like he is going to object again, but then he drags her over to a squat bare log and pushes her roughly to sit down on it. He grabs a pair of wooden calipers off his tool bench and places each point at her temples, then around the crown of her head. Arya’s ears get inexplicably warm when he crouches down in front her and measures from her chin to her crown. He returns to his bench and makes a rough sketch on a scrap of parchment with a bit of charcoal, marking down where Arya’s eyes and chin and brow will be beneath the steel. 

Gendry is showing her the sketch of her helm when they hear a commotion in the main yard. “Come on, let’s go see what it is,” Arya says, and grabs Gendry by his blackened hand before he can come up with some reason against doing so. She drags him around the corner just as the iron portcullis is being drawn up and men-at-arms are rushing up to meet whoever is coming through the gate. They kick up dust from the ground and frustratingly obscure Arya’s line of sight. 

She leads Gendry in the shadow along the wall of the castle -- her survival habits are hard to break, even here where she is completely safe -- to get them a better vantage point. First she spots two of Robb’s sentries riding through, leaping from their horses and tossing their reins to the stable boys. Then she sees a smaller person with his cloak drawn up over his head riding a scrawny looking brown mare. Perhaps he is a squire or a messenger. A thick package is flopped over the haunches of the mare. Finally, she sees two of Robb’s knights riding close on either side of a big black warhorse, a frighteningly familiar rider astride it.

“That helm,” Gendry breathes, his mouth hanging open as he squeezes Arya’s hand, getting charcoal all over her palm. “You told me about that one, the brother of that Ser Gregor --”

Arya’s not listening. Her hand slips from Gendry’s and her sword is out, and she is running forward into the sunlight. It is the kind of move that only the greenest, stupidest lunkhead would make; she knows better than this, but the rage is gripping her guts and is pushing her. She recalls her friend Mycah, the first child she ever saw killed by a grown man, the first in a parade of innocent lives that she witnessed being destroyed by strong, ruthless, godless warriors. Arya bounds across the yard, shoulders the stable hands out of the way, elbows past servants laden with waterskins. She does not even see them, registers them only as obstacles to shove past. Her eyes are locked on the Hound, and she won’t look away from him until he is dying in a puddle of his blood.

The Hound catches sight of her and Arya can see a kind of funny, shocked grimace exposed beneath the teeth of his helm. _Smile now, dog,_ Arya thinks, _and weep when I run you through._ She is mere yards away now; hardly anyone notices her in all the dust and noise and commotion, much less the slim sword in her hand. The Hound has no weapons on his horse or on his person that Arya can see; it will be so easy to catch her foot onto his stirrup, grab onto the horse’s mane, swing herself up in front of him, and slice --

“Arya!” cries a high musical voice, one that Arya hasn’t heard in years and thought she might never hear again. She halts, her purpose of a moment ago all but forgotten as the scent from the wolf dream floods her brain.

Arya spins around, her sword pointing in the direction of the brown mare. The squire has pulled his hood off his head, revealing a shock of matted red locks and a dirty pale face and blue eyes overflowing with tears of joy. “You’re alive!”

Arya wants to look into the girl’s -- woman’s -- face, but the sunlight is too bright; everything comes out streaky across her vision. The air of the yard is suddenly too thick and heavy to breathe properly, and there is a hot wet warmth behind Arya’s eyes, rolling down her cheeks, and she is wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. From somewhere far away come the murmurs, or perhaps shouts of excitement, of the others in the yard. 

Arya doesn’t lower her sword. She stares again at the bedraggled, proud woman up there on the horse, riding like a man, wearing squire’s clothes, proving to all the world that she has been living out on the road since she disappeared. Arya wants to tell her that she should have tried to save her after their father was killed, wants to say how she prayed and promised to the gods that she would avenge her family’s tormentors, wants to scream that she knew she was alive even when everyone else doubted it, but her tongue is dry and thick. 

She cannot look at the woman any longer. Instead she glances back toward the Hound, who has removed his helm and is gazing at her with a sort of weird amusement on his hideous burned face. Arya looks back to her sister and screams, “What are you doing with _him_?”

The Hound dismounts, and one of the sentries next to him puts his hand on the hilt of his sword in warning. “Saving your brother’s kingdom,” the Hound answers, jerking his chin back toward the bundle tied up behind Sansa’s saddle.

Syrio would have admonished Arya for failing to look with her eyes, for not seeing that the bundle is actually a wriggling, grunting person. Now that she is paying attention, Arya sees that it is a skinny young fellow hogtied with his wrists behind his back and his feet lashed together and an old sack covering his head. The Hound grins and approaches Sansa’s horse and pulls off the man’s hood, revealing a head with a dirty mop of golden curls and a filthy gag and green eyes blinking away the brightness of the yard. Arya feels the press of Gendry’s hand on the small of her back; hears him gasp behind her. The crowd presses forward, peering curiously at this dirty youth who almost none of them could possibly recognize.

“It’s the K-- it’s Joffrey,” Arya says quietly, nearly inaudibly beneath all the voices of all the servants and men-at-arms, but the whole yard seems to have gone silent as she speaks the truth, and then it all explodes in joy and shock and anger and fear. Arya is jostled around by strangers and Northmen alike, but she just feels numb; her body has not yet caught up with her brain’s realization that somehow Sansa and Joffrey’s sworn shield have formed an alliance and brought the pretender king here. Arya doesn’t remember having lowered her sword, but she feels the pointy end dragging in the dirt as she hears Gendry congratulating her and clapping his hand on her shoulder and shaking her.

The Hound places his gloved hands around Sansa’s waist and helps her dismount, and now that Arya is looking with her eyes she sees her sister flash the Hound a smile that is sweeter than any she ever gave to the cruel Joffrey. For the briefest moment Sansa brushes her fingertips against the Hound’s palm, as though he could feel her touch through the layer of leather, and then he pushes her gently toward Arya.

Sansa rushes to Arya and wraps her arms around her sister. She has grown so tall; she’s now a head higher than Arya. Sansa is crying into Arya’s hair, and distantly Arya wonders if their mother will berate Sansa for her grungy men’s clothes. Then Arya drops Needle to the ground and buries her face in Sansa’s leather-covered shoulder and wails, and her years of pain and guilt twist up with all this sudden unexpected joy and all she can do is sob with Sansa under the eyes of everyone in Riverrun.

*_*_*_*_*

[to be continued]


	7. River, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [excerpt]
> 
> The room erupts in shrieks. Sansa looks like she has been punched in the gut, her face white and bloodless, and the Hound lurches toward Joffrey before being set upon by half a dozen men-at-arms. Catelyn runs to Robb and shakes his shoulder urgently. “You _must_ stop this now,” Arya hears her mother growl. “Make him stop, he’ll ruin your chance at an alliance, Robb --”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some non-explicit, brief discussions of sexual assault toward the end. Does not occur, is simply very briefly mentioned/discussed.
> 
> Also I have tried to make it clear in the text of the story, but this is a reminder that I stretched out the timeline from Ned becoming Hand to the Battle of Blackwater, so people are older, have been on the road longer, etc. Um also I kinda described Riverrun the way I pictured it during this story instead of being totally canon compliant with the way GRRM wrote it. 
> 
> And for those of you who miss Joffrey’s POV . . . don’t worry, we’re not done with him yet!

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

Arya squeezes Sansa until she is certain that her sister will faint from a lack of air. Arya nearly feels that way herself; the crowd in the bright, sunny yard is growing larger and pressing closer, and she has to stuff down her instinct to flee from the mob, to grab Sansa by the hand and run back into the safety of the shadows beneath the castle walls. Instead, Arya hooks her arm through the crook of Sansa’s elbow so that they don’t get separated amidst all the jostling.

Word of Sansa’s arrival with the Hound and the bastard king must be spreading quickly, because servants and Tullys and Umbers and Westerlings and even some Bolton soldiers pour into the yard to gawk at the newcomers. Sansa greets them and grins with chapped and cracking lips, and Arya wants to scream at her that she shouldn’t trust any of them, no more than she should trust the evil Hound looming just behind them. Arya yanks on Sansa’s elbow and tries to pull her forward, to lead the tall woman in the direction of somebody with some real authority in the castle.

Sansa pats Arya’s knuckles, and Arya notices that her sister’s fingernails are torn and her skin is crisscrossed with scratches and scrapes. “I feared you were dead,” the redhead calls to Arya over the cacophony.

“I knew _you_ weren’t dead,” Arya shoots back, and she pushes away an insistent well-wisher who seems to want to touch Sansa’s hair. The two sisters make no more than three steps’ progress before one of the bakers rushes forward to thrust a fresh steaming loaf of bread into Sansa’s hand. Sansa accepts it with words of excited thanks, then releases Arya’s hand to tear the bread apart. She graciously offers the bigger piece to the Hound, extending her long arm over the heads of the servants crowding around him and the horses. The brute raises his unburnt eyebrow and gives Sansa a rather impertinent smirk before grabbing it away from her and chomping down on the crust like the starving man he clearly is. 

Arya’s eyes widen at the inexplicable kindness and familiarity that her sister is showing the pretender king’s sworn shield, but then Sansa asks a question, and Arya must turn away. “What did you say?”

“I said, where is Ro -- His Grace? Shall we meet him soon?” Sansa repeats, then takes a rabbit-like nibble at the bread. 

Arya rolls her eyes at Sansa’s ridiculous ever-present courtesies. Having recently been underfed herself, Arya recognizes the ravenous glint in her sister’s eyes. “Scarf your food down while you can, and bugger what these people think about your manners,” Arya advises. 

Sansa winces, clearly scandalized, and for a breath Arya reverts into the small dirty-faced girl crouching beneath the weirwood at Winterfell with her pretty older sister perched on a root, admonishing the coarse boyish language. But then Sansa nods in agreement and devours the rest of the bread in just a few bites, and Arya is back in the present. Sansa still manages to maintain an air of grace as she does so, which Arya finds equal parts annoying and endearing. Apparently roughing it in the wilderness with the Hound hasn’t transformed Sansa into a completely different person.

“As for the King, I’m sure somebody has already told him about you, and he’ll want to see you right away.” Arya juts her chin in the direction of the building where she broke her fast just an hour earlier. “We’re going to the great hall now, where I expect he’ll meet us with the queen.” 

“The queen?” Sansa squeals in delight. Arya bites her tongue, trying hard not to be unkind. Of course her sister would care about stupid weddings and things. Sansa probably wouldn’t be so happy about Robb’s nuptials if she knew that the marriage will probably result in the negotiation of her betrothal to some pockmarked Frey, or worse, some crazy-eyed fire-worshipping fanatic in King Stannis’s entourage.

“I’ll tell you all about _that_ later,” Arya mutters glumly as she glances over her shoulder at the Hound, who is pulling Joffrey off the back of Sansa’s horse under the watchful eyes of a dozen of Robb’s men-at-arms. 

The pretender king is all trussed up in ropes and leather straps, like a scrawny deer taken in a hunt. Arya keeps waiting for him to protest and demand fealty, but he barely even wriggles. Maybe he’s learned some humility in his months as a captive. The idea that the arrogant, cruel Joffrey has been subdued by Sansa and his favorite servant fascinates Arya, but it leaves her deeply disappointed as well. She doesn’t want Joffrey to accept his fate calmly. She wants him to writhe like a worm before all of the Northern lords, wants him to squeal and sob as he begs for Robb’s mercy. Then she wants to slide a sword through his ribs.

But as the Hound slings the blonde teenager over his shoulder like a sack of turnips, Arya glimpses the smoldering hatred in Joffrey’s eyes and she knows that the golden lion has only been collared, not tamed. Something has changed about the pretender king, it is true, but his fiery rage burns just as brightly as the day that Arya hit him all those years ago. The difference is that now, he is powerless, which could make him more dangerous. Arya wants to warn Robb, but Sansa needs her right now, to keep her moving, to keep her safe, to prove that her arrival isn’t just another wolf dream.

Arya and Sansa make it a few more steps, and the Hound catches up to the pair. Arya ogles the killer warily. She knows that the Hound cannot possibly pose a threat at this moment, stripped of his sword and surrounded by soldiers and carrying the hostage, but she still doesn’t like him walking so close to Sansa. 

Clegane catches Arya’s eye and gives her another one of those revolting smirks. “Little sister,” he rasps as he hitches the bundle of Joffrey up higher on his shoulder. Arya glares up at the pretender king’s dog and digs her nails into Sansa’s forearm. Clegane raises his one good eyebrow and continues, “I thought you were a she-wolf, but it seems that both you Stark girls are birds after all, using your wings to fly away from King’s Landing.” The Hound seems as if he wants to say more, but Sansa cuts him a severe look, and he simply guffaws. 

“Please disregard Sandor’s teasing. He knows I am overjoyed to see you again after all this time,” Sansa whispers, and Arya’s eyes practically bulge from their sockets at the intimacy of her sister’s address. Back when the Starks traveled south, Sansa could barely look at Joffrey’s dog, much less refer to him by his first name. The wilderness must have turned Arya’s sister into a different person after all. There is no other explanation for how the prissy, romance-loving girl could have become friends with the beastly Hound, sharing her fears and secrets with him. 

But then Arya recalls the little coin in her pocket, the one that she keeps on her person at all times just in case she ever needs to flee to Braavos, the little metal disc that she rubs with her thumb each night as she says the names of the men she will someday kill, including the Hound walking beside her sister, and she remembers the silver and copper hair of the man who gave it to her. Once she was drawn to a strange confidant in a similarly desperate circumstance. But still, Sansa and the Hound, as friends? The thought is downright bizarre.

Sansa slides her hand into Arya’s and squeezes tenderly. “I told Sandor how I had feared you did not escape the riot after -- after father --” she trails off, and laces her fingers through Arya’s.

When Arya dreams of that day, she sees only the white birds burnt into the blue sky, feels only the rasp of Yoren’s dull knife against her scalp, but still her stomach puckers with grief and rage. She decides that she will kill Joffrey before she kills the Hound.

The cellar steward cuts off Arya’s terrible thoughts by pressing one cup of wine into her hands and another into Sansa’s, and Arya is grateful for the distraction. Another servant offers Sansa a wet cloth to wipe her face, and suddenly their little procession is at a complete halt again, far too many yards away from the hall where the King and perhaps even their mother must surely be waiting. Arya knows she should feel gratitude for the kindness of Robb’s subjects, but now she just wants to shout at them to get out of the way. Gendry might have been able to help push through the crowd, since he is so much bigger and taller than most of the castle servants and soldiers, but of course he let himself get shoved aside in the melee and now Arya can’t see past the first few rows of people. _He is so useless sometimes,_ Arya thinks to herself, vexed.

Before Arya can contemplate Gendry’s shortcomings further, Catelyn pushes through the mob and envelopes Sansa in her arms, paying no attention to the dust and grime and tears that are ruining her red velvet gown. Even dirty and sallow as Sansa is, she has clearly grown to be a younger, even more beautiful mirror image of their mother. Mother and daughter clutch one another, burying their faces in each other’s hair.

Arya watches her mother kiss her sister’s face. An ugly selfish plume of jealousy spreads through her chest, and a little girl’s voice, one that Arya thought had died with her father in King’s Landing, whispers that Catelyn will cast her aside now that the favored daughter has returned. But then Catelyn beams and embraces both her girls and kisses each of them wetly on their foreheads and cries, “The gods have finally answered my prayers. They have returned both of you to me.” Arya sniffles, ashamed, and returns the tearful hugs of her mother and sister.

Catelyn herds Sansa and Arya through the archway that opens onto the foyer outside the great hall, and Arya notices that her mother frequently glares sternly back at the Hound. The man, for his part, begins carefully avoiding eye contact with any of the Starks once Catelyn shows up. Arya turns back and links arms with her sister on her left and her mother grasps Sansa around the waist on her right, and Arya can’t tell if they are holding Sansa up, or if it is the other way around.

The solid oak doors into the hall swing open and Arya’s family and the Hound and the pretender king Joffrey are heralded inside. Men and women pour behind them into the high ceilinged room, lords and heirs and knights and smallfolk alike. The highborn families and their landed followers claim seats on the benches, and servants crowd up along the walls under the great pointed windows, even those who have no business in the hall at this moment or at any other time. As Arya marches her mother and sister down the wide aisle and past the trestle tables that have been hurriedly cleared of the recent morning meal, she spies Gendry trying to blend in next to a tapestry depicting red trout leaping out of a crystal blue stream. He grins and winks at her, and Arya looks away, chuffed that he wasn’t around when she needed him to help her a few minutes earlier, and she impatiently tugs on her sister’s sleeve.

In front of the high table on the dais, Robb and his new queen occupy Grandfather Hoster’s fine carved lord’s and lady’s chairs; Grey Wind sits alert at their feet, his ears swiveling and his tongue lolling cheerfully. Robb still wears his riding clothes, but somebody -- probably Queen Jeyne -- had the presence of mind to toss his crown onto his sweaty auburn curls. Robb rises when Sansa is halfway down the aisle, and he takes a step toward them before the queen grasps the fabric at his elbow and whispers in his ear. Then he stops, apparently agreeing with her that he should wait for everyone to come to him. Grey Wind wags his great fluffy tail, sharing the joy of his master, and barks once in happy greeting.

Sansa curtsies low before Robb as though her squires' clothes were a fine silk gown, and Arya self-consciously makes an approximation of the same gesture. Arya steals a look under her arm in time to witness Clegane flop Joffrey onto the floor and take one knee, bowing his head. His stringy dark hair hides his scars and the expression on his face. 

Catelyn grabs Arya by the hand and drags her to the dais to stand off to the side below King Robb. Arya wants to protest, wants to stay by her sister’s side, but she doesn’t want to embarrass her mother or her brother, so she relents and follows her mother.

Robb greets Sansa with a smile that exudes an appropriate amount of regal warmth, though he clearly wants to fling his crown to the side and pull his long-lost sister into a bear hug. But as is always the case now, he makes the effort to emanate kingly strength in front of his subjects. “Princess Sansa, sweet sister, rise and know that you are a most welcome sight. We feared for your safety when you were a hostage of the Lannisters.”

“Hear, hear!” shouts somebody from the back. He is quickly and sternly hushed.

The king ignores the scuffle and continues, “When we learned of your disappearance during the battle between King Stannis and the pretender Joffrey, many believed you were lost forever. But now we look forward to hearing all the songs the singers will write of your daring escape." He grins at Sansa, and Arya glimpses the young carefree man that her older brother once was. But then the royal affectation slams back into place and he takes the queen’s fingers in his hand. “Allow me to present my beloved Queen Jeyne, of House Westerling.” Queen Jeyne nods down to her goodsister with an uncertain, hopeful smile. 

Sansa curtsies again to the queen and rises, though the Hound remains kneeling, with his head bowed. Sansa’s face shines with joy even as she clearly struggles to keep herself collected amidst the large audience. She clears her throat and speaks in her high clear voice. “Your Grace, it a relief to find you safe after your many battles. At King’s Landing, your victories enraged the Lannisters as much as they kept my hope alive.” 

This time, when the man in the back shouts his approval, his voice is joined by dozens of others.

Sansa waits for the cries of support to die down, and she gestures to Joffrey, who lies motionless on his back, his arms bound at his sides and his eyes hidden under the matted curls. “I have brought you the pretender king Joffrey who ordered our father killed.” She swallows and her eyes dart to Catelyn for a moment before fixing back on Robb. “But I would never have reached you without the help of the honest and brave Sandor Clegane,” she continues, her voice wavering as she speaks the Hound’s name. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Arya sees Robb gaze down dispassionately at the Hound. The men at the trestle tables murmur, and Arya swears that she hears words like “turncloak” and “Lannister dog” and “butcher” amidst the rumble. She disagrees with none of those assessments of the man, but she finds herself irritated that they voice such an opinion of the one person who Sansa claims actually helped her to escape from King’s Landing. None of the men in this room risked _their_ skins for Sansa, or Arya, for that matter.

This time, Sansa does not wait for the voices of Robb’s supporters to quiet. She raises her voice, high and nervous, and explains, “We have learned little of the fate of the Seven Kingdoms during our travels, but we know that fighting still ravages the land and your subjects. It is my -- it is our desire that this valuable hostage will help you end this terrible war, so that you and Queen Jeyne may take your rightful places as sovereigns in the North.” Sansa’s cheeks turn pink, her remaining confidence clearly spent, and she drops her eyes to the floor.

At that, the Northmen begin pounding on the tables in approval, and from a few rows back the Greatjon roars, “King in the North!” Sansa’s entire face blooms bright red and she nervously tucks the weird fringe of chopped hair back behind her ear. Arya can’t wait to hear all about how that happened when she’s finally alone with her sister again.

Robb, meanwhile, stares down at Joffrey with disgust. The King’s blue eyes, as warm as a summer sky when gazing upon his beloved sister, flash hard and cold with ice now. “We knew Joffrey was missing, of course, but we could never have hoped for such an outcome. We are surprised but pleased to learn that you and your -- companion --” he glances at the Hound, who has remained as still as a hulking gargoyle, “kidnapped the bastard pretender who killed our father, an honest servant to the crown who sought only to advise the true king in the South.” Robb flexes his fingers against the hilt of his sword. 

Grey Wind lopes down to the young man laying on the floor and sniffs Joffrey’s feet. The wolf’s ears flatten and the long straight fur raises up on his neck. He growls, and Robb says, “Well said, Grey Wind.” The men at the front of the hall snicker.

 _That was a mistake,_ Arya thinks. Robb has been doing well, but the jest about his direwolf causes him to lose some of his regal demeanor, and Arya glances uneasily at the lords at the front of the hall who she trusts the least.

Lord Bolton, whose face is usually totally impassive and unreadable, has the faintest crease upon his pale brow. If Arya hadn’t once spent so much time trying to discern his moods, she wouldn’t have noticed it at all. He clears his throat softly, and the laughter dies away. “Your Grace is kind to speak of the dog of House Lannister in such neutral terms, particularly since Princess Sansa tells us of his valor with the kind of certainty that only the young can muster.” He adjusts his sleeves just so, and Arya knows that for some reason that her one-time lord is furious. Arya wishes, once again, that she had confided to Robb her reasons for fearing and distrusting the ice-eyed man. But Robb probably wouldn’t have believed her anyway. No one ever does, not until it is too late.

Arya clenches her fists against her breeches. She glances down at Sansa, who appears genuinely confused that one of Robb’s bannermen would question her story, much less throw doubt upon Robb’s generous description of Clegane. Clegane, for his part, remains on one knee, still as a statue, but his big fingers are digging into the mail on his enormous thigh, and his loose long hair in front of his face is fluttering from his quick breaths. Apparently he fears that things are headed in the wrong direction, just as Arya does.

The hall has fallen silent. It seems as though all the people, even King Robb and Queen Jeyne, are holding their breath to hear what the soft-spoken Bolton has to say. He leans back against the edge of the table and steeples his fingers beneath his pasty chin. “The Hound’s presence here concerns me. Everyone knows that Clegane and his brother have served as savage butchers for the lions. Many of the Tullys and others here recently lost men in the battle with the Mountain that Rides.” The murmuring starts up again, and even though Arya agrees with the lord, she cannot help but feel deeply uneasy. 

Robb nods as though he concurs with the words of his bannerman, but his eyes stay hard. From her close vantage point, Arya can see her brother clenching his teeth together in anger. “Lord Bolton speaks truly of Ser Gregor and his terrible deeds. But let us save our questioning of these newcomers for another time. My sweet sister --”

“Princess Sansa is sweet, that is clear,” Bolton interrupts, and Arya hopes that Robb will punish him for it, but her brother only grips the hilt of his sword harder, in silence. “She suffered a terrible ordeal, and she obviously sees this brute as her protector. But kindhearted as she is, she would never be able to root out the treachery that so often lies in the hearts of men. I find it difficult to believe that a young highborn woman and the Lannisters’ favorite fighter kidnapped King Joffrey and crossed the war-torn countryside with two horses and a single sword between them. Someone must have helped Clegane, and if that is the case, you could be in grave danger, Your Grace.”

“No!” Sansa cries out, her objection echoing through the hall. The Hound flinches at her voice, and his knuckles are white against his leg now. She looks between Robb and Bolton, her arms outstretched in an appeal. “Your Grace, it is as I tell it, I swear to you -- Sandor -- Clegane and I alone -- you must believe me --” She says more, but it is drowned out by the shouts of the crowd and the screech of benches being pushed back against the stone floor as men jump up in anger.

Arya suddenly wishes that Sansa had arrived in the middle of the night so that the whole affair could have been sorted out in private. Robb could order all the bannermen and servants out right now, of course, but Arya gets the feeling that such a command would just make the resolution of this standoff more suspicious in the eyes of the king’s enemies. Surely spies are already sending ravens back to King’s Landing even now. Her stomach twists with the awful sensation that everything is going wrong, all at once, and she will be unable to do anything to halt the terrible progression.

Robb raises his hand up, and the shouts of his followers die down again. He opens his mouth to speak, but again Bolton interrupts.

“Perhaps we should hear what the kidnapped king has to say of this tale,” Bolton suggests as offhandedly as if he were giving his opinion on which doublet the king should wear to a tourney. 

Arya tilts her head in confusion. It is an uncharacteristically risky move for Bolton to demand to hear the answers to questions that he does not already know, so he must be desperate to get whatever it is that he wants, which he must fear he won’t acquire now that Sansa and the Hound and Joffrey have arrived. Arya doesn’t care what her stupid creepy ex-lord wants. She just wants him to shut his mouth and stop slandering Sansa, or soon she will add his name to her nightly litany. 

“Perhaps we should hear what they all have to say, after they have recovered from their ordeal,” Catelyn interjects. Now Arya is truly confused for Catelyn’s surprising involvement. Of late, her mother has not inserted herself in political matters, fearing Robb’s chastisement. But she must sense the danger here as well.

“My lady, you are as kind as your daughter,” Bolton replies, though on his tongue it doesn’t sound like a compliment. “Perhaps I spoke wrongly. Perhaps it was the Hound and Princess Sansa alone who stole the king. But I say that there is more to this story, and I do not believe that Clegane helped the beautiful and friendless Stark princess out of the goodness of his heart.” Bolton presses his lips together and gazes pointedly at Catelyn.

Belatedly, Arya understands what her mother fears will be discussed in public. She feels unbearably stupid, realizing that probably everyone in the whole hall has been thinking what Lord Bolton has finally put into words. Of course that disgusting Hound must have tried to use Sansa unjustly as the price for bringing her home. Arya is glad that she didn’t take the Hound off her list, not even in those moments that Sansa defended him. Arya reaches to touch the place on her hip where her sword should be, and she momentarily panics as she realizes that she dropped it in the yard when Sansa hugged her. She searches for Gendry again and finds him, sees that he has stuck her weapon into his belt. Needle looks ridiculously small against his long leg, but she feels awash with gratitude that he has saved it for her. Maybe he isn’t completely useless after all. Maybe she’ll let him kill Lord Bolton for trying to talk about Sansa’s honor here in front of everybody.

Bolton scratches at his chin, seemingly unconcerned with the ruckus that his speech has brought about. “At the very least, we should verify that the Lady Sansa’s account is --” he coughs lightly, falsely, “--accurate.”

Catelyn objects again, entreating her son not to allow his liege lord to push him around in front of his other bannermen. “Your Grace, there is no need --”

Robb glares at Catelyn in warning, and she bites her tongue. “Lady Catelyn is rightly concerned for her daughter,” Robb mutters tightly, wearily. He has no choice, not now when his own sworn bannerman has practically shamed him into a corner like this. “But she speaks with the voice of a mother, not of a ruler. Lord Bolton wishes to hear the bastard speak. I’ll wager that many of you piled into the hall for the same reason.” He catches the eyes of a couple of knights in the front row of the trestle tables. They shoulder past Clegane, who finally rises and stands noticeably farther away from Sansa than he did when they were in the yard.

The knight in the plain brown tunic and ringmail yanks Joffrey up by his bindings and cuts them apart with one long slash, then quickly shoves the bastard king down onto his hands and knees. The other knight, a swarthy Northerner in a leather jerkin, slices apart the gag. 

The false king remains on his hands and knees, shaking, his face mostly hidden by the shadows and the filthy, matted blonde hair. A long thread of saliva drips to the ground, and he wipes his mouth with his stained silk sleeve.

“Look at me, monster,” King Robb commands.

Joffrey whips his head up and pushes back from the floor. His sunken green eyes are just as wild and horrible hate-filled as they were outside, and his cheeks are thin and dirty, but it is his weird open mouth that is truly frightening. He has lost one of his top teeth, which makes him look kind of like one of the fools that Arya remembers from court at King’s Landing, and the corners of his lips are turned upward in a sneer, or maybe even a little bit of a smile. He does look at King Robb for a moment, as commanded, but then his eyes roll back and stray over to Sansa and the Hound, and he grins, deranged.

“I said, look at _me_ ,” hisses Robb, and Joffrey slides his eyes back over to Arya’s brother. “Have you any words for the rightful King in the North, bastard?”

“I have words,” Joffrey rasps, the ‘s’ whistling through the hole in his teeth. A couple of the men at arms standing under the windows chortle.

“You are in the presence of the King in the North. You will address him as ‘Your Grace,’” Catelyn commands, her voice shaking, her eyes jumping nervously between her son and the young man who was once supposed to be her king and goodson.

“Your _Grace,_ ” Joffrey corrects himself. “I have words.”

“Did anyone help your captors kidnap you?” Robb raps out.

“None did,” Joffrey pronounces. “Your Grace,” he hisses. 

“And Clegane --”

“The Hound never touched the Lady -- Princess Sansa -- I think that is what Lord Bolton was trying to say, with prettier phrases,” Joffrey proclaims loudly enough for the hall to hear, the whistle echoing around. “I have no reason to lie about that. I spent every night on the road with them.”

Arya exhales, relieved. She had barely thought to worry about such a possibility, not when Sansa was treating the Hound so pleasantly out in the yard, but then when Bolton implied it, she didn’t see how it could not be true. But when she looks over to Sansa, she sees fear and confusion crossing her sister’s face instead of the relief she expected to find.

Joffrey turns his head toward the Hound and stares his former sworn shield square in the face. He calls out, cold and clear, for everyone to hear, “I’m the one who took the little bitch’s maidenhead, over a year ago back in King’s Landing.”

The room erupts in shrieks. Sansa looks like she has been punched in the gut, her face white and bloodless, and the Hound lurches toward Joffrey before being set upon by half a dozen men-at-arms. Catelyn runs to Robb and shakes his shoulder urgently. “You _must_ stop this now,” Arya hears her mother growl. “Make him stop, he’ll ruin your chance at an alliance, Robb --”

“You think that I would have wed your bitch sister after you turned traitor without making sure she could whelp?” Joffrey screeches, and his awful voice cuts above even the clamor of the crowd. Spittle dribbles from his mouth and he sways crazily on his knees. “There was no point to that marriage unless she could give me an heir that the North would recognize. Anyway, she can’t. Whelp, that is. She’s barren!”

Sansa is saying something, but in the din Arya can’t hear her words. _Bugger this,_ Arya thinks, and rushes down the steps to her poor pale sister. She grabs Sansa around the waist and props her upright.

“. . . a lie,” Sansa says to Arya, and tears pool in her eyes. “It’s all a lie.” She swoons, and soon Arya is bowed over by her sister’s limp form.

The Hound has tossed one of Robb’s men aside and is obviously trying to get to Joffrey to tear him apart. He is only subdued when the Greatjon puts a sword to his throat. But one drawn sword begets another, and soon the whole hall is shouting, pulling out weapons. Servants rush the doors that lead to the kitchens, trying to flee before blood is drawn.

Joffrey is howling gleefully above the chaos, his face shining purple and red. “When I got tired of your bitch sister I gave her over to Ser Boros and Ser Meryn,” he gurgles, even though Arya is pretty sure she is the only person still paying attention to his mad ravings. He tries to stand, but before he even makes it onto both feet, the two knights who unbound him bowl him over and wrestle him back to the floor.

Arya lifts her gaze from the horrifying scene at her feet. She finds herself looking at Lord Bolton across from her, his eyes glistening cool and colorless. He alone remains seated and calm, the quiet center of the raging storm. He meets Arya’s eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitches up.

*_*_*_*_*

[to be continued]


	8. River, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa flinches as the servant with the scrub brush picks at the dirt under her fingernails. “You don’t think they imprisoned him, after all he did for me --”
> 
> Arya rolls her eyes in frustration. She knows exactly where Robb’s men have taken the Hound. When she was guiding the wailing Sansa back across the yard to her chambers, she saw half a dozen soldiers escorting Clegane in the direction of a room reserved for honored guests that is easy to guard. The dog certainly couldn’t escape from those chambers, not with his bulk, but Arya knows about a small high window with broken shutters and a thick dead vine creeping up along the side of the wall. “He’ll be fine,” Arya mutters. “Why do you care, anyway?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Stuff is starting to break down, or mash up, or something. Doing my best to keep the rhythm of this story consistent while bringing in more POVs, plotlines, etc. Thank you for your continued reading of this story. Your comments make me a better writer.

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

Oh, how sweet the nectar of victory tastes, even though Joffrey washes down his triumph with his own blood when he bites his tongue as one of Robb’s men slams him hard against the floor. The great hall spins away on impact; Joffrey’s vision explodes into rainbow stars. Nonsensical babbling pours from Joffrey’s bruised mouth, and he can’t control it, but even that little ignominy does not matter. His earlier words have set off the ladies shrieking, the servants screaming, the Hound roaring helplessly, and most satisfyingly of all, the stupid little wolf bitch Sansa sobbing hopelessly. After so many months of shameful impotence, Joffrey once again feels unbeatably strong, powerful, like the person he was before the traitors took him from his kingdom.

Joffrey doesn’t hear Robb give the order, but he is yanked to his feet and hustled toward the exit of the great hall, with guards flanking him on either side and a great armored woman holding the butt of a battle axe between his shoulder blades. He passes Sansa on the way out and sneers at her, and her horrified visage makes laughter bubble up in his throat, and halfway down the aisle he finds himself doubled over in uncontrollable glee. He can’t even walk for the hilarity of it all. The guards take him roughly under the armpits and drag him out, his toes bumping on the uneven stones of the floor.

The guards half-walk, half-carry Joffrey across the dusty yard and through a narrow entrance cut into the castle walls and up some curving stairs until they reach a small tower cell. Joffrey laughs all the way there, right up until they shove him through the door and slam it shut and leave him alone. He realizes with sudden clarity that this is the first moment in months that he has been completely by himself, without the constant infuriating company of his dog and his betrothed. He whoops with a rush of joy, but the sound of his voice bouncing off the curved stone walls fills him with unexpected dread. He is alone now, but Robb’s men will come back eventually, and it’s unclear what they will do with him at that point. 

_Surely I am too valuable to kill,_ he thinks. _Not too valuable to maim, though._

Joffrey assesses his current accommodations, hoping for a clue about what Robb will do with him. The cell’s walls are mostly cast in shadow, though cold afternoon sunlight cuts through the dusty air from skinny slit windows. A chilly draft raises goosebumps on Joffrey’s arms, but the feeling is nothing compared to the unbearable months of shivering under the stars with his captors. A wool blanket has been tossed on top of a thick mound of relatively fresh looking straw, and Joffrey detects no evidence of rats. 

As far as hostage cells go, this one isn’t half bad. Joffrey takes the state of the room as a sign that the Starks plan to bargain carefully with him to end the war.

Joffrey flops onto the straw and extends his arms and legs, his joints popping, and he feels like the king he once was. Except for the worst nights of Joffrey’s fever, the Hound and Sansa always bound his limbs together when he laid down to sleep, so the stretch seems an incredible luxury. He is mostly glad to be rid of his captors, but he regrets being unable to watch them suffer now.

What he would give to see Sansa’s face at this moment! Joffrey scratches at a flea bite on his ribs and wonders what the girl’s family will do with her now. They certainly won’t be able to make a match with any of the largest houses’ heirs -- none of the Northern lords would want to risk the extinguishment of their line, no matter how vehemently Sansa proclaims her innocence and presumed fertility. Joffrey smirks gleefully and half-wishes he actually did what he claimed to have done to her, but then he would have had to touch the revolting traitorous bitch. Most likely, Sansa will go to some old toothless man whose heirs have already grown, or perhaps she will get carted off to some bannerman’s third or fourth son, some Citadel dropout who survives on the scraps his his older brothers feed him. Or maybe she will just throw herself into the river beneath the castle walls here, heartbroken and too ashamed to live. Joffrey runs his tongue along the space between his teeth and rather hopes she chooses the last option.

And the Hound! The brute was incensed to have his lady’s honor besmirched before the entire Northern kingdom -- his appalling behavior was even better than Joffrey could have wished. Surely the Starks will want want to rid themselves of the besotted turncloak as quickly as possible, by sword or by banishment. For a moment, he was certain that one of the Northern lords would stick a sword through the Hound’s belly right there in the great hall, but that, sadly, did not come to pass. Such a pity. 

Joffrey grins to himself and folds his hands behind his head. As satisfying as it was to ruin Sansa and the Hound’s futures, Joffrey still resents that he may not be king once his family takes him back. He’s much stronger and cleverer than Tommen, after all, and if anything, his endurance of this ordeal only further proves his abilities, but Mother taught him long ago that perceived weakness can damage one’s power as quickly as actual weakness. Joffrey is _not_ weak -- he proved that in the great hall just an hour past -- but his kidnapping and extended disappearance will undoubtedly make it more difficult for him to reclaim his seat on the Iron Throne. Joffrey sighs and stretches his arms above his head. Perhaps there are other things that are almost as good as being king.

Perhaps Grandfather will name him heir to Casterly Rock. It could be a good life, one with all the comforts he enjoyed in King’s Landing and none of the responsibilities. Joffrey could live out his days shooting game with his crossbow and begetting more golden haired Lannisters on some Western lord’s daughter. He dozes off to images of a hot ten-course supper in a luxurious suite, with a fire crackling in the hearth, with loyal, fearful guards outside of his door to protect him, with the snow whipping around his safe high tower and the icy seas crashing against the bluffs far below him. 

*_*_*_*_*_*

Arya swings her feet back and forth impatiently, her bottom sinking into the soft feather-stuffed mattress on her tall bed frame. She watches her naked, sobbing sister, who is sunk down in the murky water of a small copper tub as three maids tend to her. Arya bites down hard on her tongue, doing her best to keep herself from screaming at Sansa to stop wailing like a helpless baby. Back in the chaos of the great hall, the crying was more understandable, but now that Sansa is safe in Arya’s room, Arya wishes that her sister would get ahold of herself. 

Arya’s eyes keep straying back to the door, hoping for her mother to walk through, but she knows that she shouldn’t expect Catelyn to come anytime soon. Undoubtedly, Catelyn has been waylaid by her son and his advisors, and she will probably be occupied late into the night, strategizing on how to use Joffrey to the North’s advantage, figuring out how to reduce the damage of his words to the Stark family. Arya is annoyed -- comforting a crying Sansa is definitely Catelyn’s area of expertise, not hers -- but she feels pleased that her mother evidently trusts her enough to take care of Sansa for now. 

Sansa winces as one maid roughly scrubs the soles of her feet and another yanks at the tangles in her hair. The third maid flutters around, waiting for orders, and Arya gets so irritated by the hovering that she yells at the wench to make herself useful and get some clothes for her sister. “Bring a warm night shift and some smallclothes from my lady mother’s chambers,” Arya commands. “And bring a gown, something long. And frilly,” she adds, hoping that a feminine dress will please her sister, or at least make her stop crying.

Sansa seems to notice Arya’s effort. Her eyes shine bright in the light from the flames in the fireplace. “Thank you,” she sniffles apologetically. “Sandor told me not to cry when we were fleeing. I suppose I bottled it up and it’s all coming out now.”

That makes sense to Arya. Surely the Hound would have thrown Sansa off his horse if she had been sobbing from King’s Landing to Riverrun. And the redhead and the warrior certainly seemed to be getting along well enough when they arrived in the castle.

“Where do you think the guards took him?” Sansa asks, clearly trying to sound calm in spite of her wavering voice. She looks down at her legs soaking in the water.

Arya doesn’t answer, because the maid has returned with the clothes. The gown is bright purple and bedecked with ribbons and ruffles -- Sansa will _have_ to appreciate that -- but the skirt will probably be too short for the tall woman. Arya hops up from where she is sitting and directs the wench to lay it out on the bed with the other garments and dismisses her.

Sansa flinches as the servant with the scrub brush picks at the dirt under her fingernails. “You don’t think they imprisoned him, after all he did for me --”

Arya rolls her eyes in frustration. She knows exactly where Robb’s men have taken the Hound. When she was guiding the wailing Sansa back across the yard to her chambers, she saw half a dozen soldiers escorting Clegane in the direction of a room reserved for honored guests that is easy to guard. The dog certainly couldn’t escape from those chambers, not with his bulk, but Arya knows about a small high window with broken shutters and a thick dead vine creeping up along the side of the wall. “He’ll be fine,” Arya mutters. “Why do you care, anyway?” she asks distractedly, wondering if she should send a message to the maester to bring some dreamwine to calm her sister. 

Finally, Sansa gets herself under a semblance of control again. “Sandor is a hero,” Sansa replies, her voice shaking. “He overpowered Joffrey’s guards himself, and got us safely out of King’s Landing, and cut down anyone who tried to stop us, and kept me from starving.” Sansa’s account of the Hound’s selflessness surprises Arya, but at least it explains why Sansa is so concerned about the man’s well-being. “He doesn’t deserve to be locked up like that vile pretender king.” 

Sansa bursts into tears again, and Arya grinds her teeth in annoyance. Sansa’s useless, annoying flood of anguish is scraping her nerves raw. One of the maids hands Sansa a clean cloth to blow her nose.

Arya sighs, but relents. Her poor sister was slandered in front of everybody, after all, and while Arya believes -- hopes -- that Joffrey was just telling tales, she is not so naive as to think that none of the lords in the room have taken the bastard’s stories to heart. “Joffrey’s a liar,” Arya growls, and looks hard at the two maids bathing Sansa, as if to provoke them into challenging her assertion. The two girls look away and make a point of concentrating on their work.

“Everything he said. It was all terrible lies,” Sansa agrees in a whisper. She winces as one of the girls pulls her wet hair into a simple braid, weaving the short strands amongst the longer ones.

“Everything except when he said the Hound didn’t touch you,” Arya corrects, plopping down on a linen chest at the foot of the bed. “At least Joffrey wasn’t lying about that.”

Sansa looks at her sister dolefully, guiltily. The maids pause their scrubbing and brushing.

Arya blinks and glares at Sansa, and red-black fury swirls through her guts. She clenches her fingers against the lid of the linen chest. “Clegane _didn’t_ touch you, did he?” 

Sansa doesn’t answer, but her lower lip trembles. 

Arya feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise, hears nothing but her hard rattling breaths and her blood pumping through her ears. The maids stare at her, their mouths hanging open. “Out.” Arya hisses, leaping from her seat, and when they just look at one another like a couple of bovines, she screams, “NOW!” 

The wenches drop their brushes and scuttle out, closing the door behind them. It’s anyone’s guess what rumors they will try to spread through the castle now; if Arya hears anything, though, she will strangle them both.

Sansa sinks into the tepid brown water. She covers her face with her hands. “Oh, Arya! It wasn’t like you think -- he was so brave, and he kept me safe --”

“Sansa, I swear to the Seven I will kill him tonight.” Arya knows just how she will do it. She will get Needle back from Gendry, and climb the vine, and slip through the window while the Hound is snoring --

“No!” Sansa yells, and finally, finally her tears have disappeared. She stands up in the tub, naked, the water streaming down her clean body and sloshing onto the floor, her wet braid whipping behind her, her expression cold as ice. “You couldn’t hurt Sandor if you tried.”

Arya snorts at that. “He won’t be the first person I’ve killed,” she says, her pride over her accomplishment mingling with shame as she sees Sansa’s horrified expression at her admission. “Clegane dishonored you --”

“He did nothing of the sort,” Sansa hisses. She steps out of the tub and wraps herself in the thick warm towel left by the maids, and stands dripping by the fireplace, staring into the flames. “I kissed him first.”

Arya’s eyes bug out so far she swears they will pop from their sockets. It was hard enough to believe that Sansa befriended the Hound, but it made some sense since they had to work together to get to Riverrun. She feels downright nauseous imagining her sister seducing the scarred old warrior.

Then an even more horrible thought occurs to Arya. “Are you --” she swallows back the bile rising in her throat -- “are you carrying his child?”

Sansa turns around sharply, as though the question is unreasonable. “Of course not! I kissed him, but I’m still a maiden.” Her face is half in shadow, but Arya sees her expression soften. 

Arya relaxes her taut muscles in relief. It’s not ideal to learn that Sansa has been kissing one of the people Arya has been planning to kill, but it’s nowhere near as bad as Arya had feared.

Sansa must think her situation is pretty desperate, though, because she sighs heavily and slumps her shoulders. “Sandor must be so worried, wondering if I’m going to abandon him after what Joffrey said in front of everyone. Oh, Arya, won’t you please get a message to him so that he doesn’t leave? Tell him I still -- tell him --” she breaks off, and looks back into the fire, evidently too upset to continue.

Arya studies her sister’s face closely. There is that same brightness, that same crease at the corner of Sansa’s eyes that was there when she smiled at the Hound out in the yard that no one else noticed. No one, that is, except for Arya, who sees things that others do not see. 

“You want me to tell him you love him.”

Sansa gazes back at Arya with new tears glistening in her eyes. She nods.

Arya should feel flooded with outrage, should feel betrayed by her own blood, but instead, for some reason she thinks only of Gendry’s crooked smile, his laughing eyes that are sometimes half-hidden by the mop of black hair that falls in his face. Heat rises to her cheeks. She swallows the lump of anger in her throat and makes her decision.

“Tell him yourself,” Arya says before she can change her mind, pushing away the image of Gendry’s long eyelashes.

Sansa misunderstands, and her face crumples and the tears start falling again. “Arya. How can you be so cruel?” she whispers.

Arya rolls her eyes to the ceiling. Sansa used to go into histrionics, before, back in that other lifetime that that the two of them shared all those years ago in Winterfell, and evidently she still has some of that old melodrama running through her veins. Arya grabs the stupid frilly purple gown off the bed and tosses it onto the floor in front of Sansa. “Get dressed, and tell him yourself. I’ll take you to your old Hound, and no one will ever know.”

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Sandor leans back in the miniscule tin washbasin, his arms and legs hanging over the sides. He feels like a bloody overturned turtle, but he cannot summon the will to care. The hot water soaks into his sore muscles and his mind is cleared of everything but the feeling of pure, unadulterated exhaustion.

He isn’t sure if the Starks mean to keep him prisoner, or if they are treating him as an honored guest. Perhaps it’s a little of both. Years of service to the Lannisters left him well-practiced at accepting his given situation without questioning it, and the skill is helpful at this moment, when thinking about much of anything is too painful. 

The chambers are obviously intended for respected visitors -- the hearth crackles with a warm fire; the rushes on the floor smell fresh; the pallet bed, which is admittedly a foot too short for Sandor, is stuffed with new straw -- but the guards who escorted him here from the great hall locked the door behind them after the servants brought up the bath and supper and clean clothes. It doesn’t matter. Sandor’s belly is full, his dirty rags are in a pile on the floor, and for the first time in months, he feels warm and comfortable.

He should probably be pondering his next moves, strategizing how to convince King Robb to reward him with passage on a boat headed to Pentos, where he can finally get that manse with the pretty serving wenches and the grapes. The idea is a damn sight more pleasing than the certain death that he expected when he fled King’s Landing with the little -- no, he won’t, can’t think of her right now, not without the accompanying feeling of a sword slicing through his guts. He groans in frustration, wishing that the maids had left a flagon of wine along with the tray of food.

Sandor picks up a cake of yellow soap from the floor and scrubs his arms, along his chest, down his stomach. He passes the soap over his thigh and his cock stirs, as if it had any business to be doing that. He managed to hold off on all those nights in the forest, with his arms around -- _stop it, no good will come from thinking of her, not now,_ he mentally admonishes himself -- in any case, he can wait until he is on his own again, instead of here under the roof of the Tullys, when one of King Robb’s men is sure to burst in at any moment. He’d just as soon not be found wanking off when that happens.

He hears a scratching at the shutters of the high window. _Just what I need, some rat nesting up there and getting shit all over my room,_ he thinks. _These old fucking castle rooms without real glass._ He rises from the little basin to scare the rodent away. 

Before he makes it two steps, the shutters pop inward and a girl’s face is staring down at him. “Eeew!” the little bird’s sister shrieks, trying to cover her eyes with one hand and hold onto the ledge with the other.

Sandor jumps back and has just enough sense through his shock and anger to grab a towel off the bed and wrap it around his waist. “What in seven hells are you doing here?” he growls as the girl launches herself the rest of the way inside and lands on her feet.

The she-wolf jerks her head toward the clothes on Sandor’s bed. “Get dressed first. Then we’ll talk.”

Sandor snorts, annoyed at being ordered around by the runty brat. “If I turn around to dress, are you going to try to stab me in the back?”

“No!” the girl says, too quickly, but she looks like she is sorry that she didn’t think of it herself.

Sandor raises his good eyebrow at her, but he notices that she’s not carrying that skinny sword of hers anymore, and he decides to take the risk. “You turn around too, little wolf,” he grumbles. The girl seems happy to comply with the request.

He snatches the too-short breeches and fat man’s tunic from the bed and quickly dons them. “Alright. Whatever innocence you have remains preserved,” he mutters, and the girl turns around. “What do you want? Be quiet about it, they’ve got two guards on the other side of the door.”

“Three,” the girl corrects. “One outside by the entrance. Dacey Mormont’s men.”

Sandor can’t help but smirk. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You’ve come to rescue me, little sister?”

“Ugh, no,” she replies. She glances nervously around the room, and when her eyes land on him again she assesses him from head to toe with a sneer on her face. Sandor long ago grew accustomed to people looking at him that way, but it doesn’t mean he ever started liking it.

“Then what are you here for? If you’re not going to free me, and if you don’t have a skin of wine tucked in that boy’s belt of yours, then begone.”

“My sister’s in love with you,” she blurts out, her eyes wide, and she looks like she doesn’t believe it any more than Sandor does.

Sandor blinks, once. He lets the spark of hope flare up for a moment, though, before crushing it in the ashes of his mind. He drops his eyes to the floor. “She’s not.”

“She kissed you!” the little sister exclaims, and Sandor sees that she is staring at his horrible scars, and he knows that she is astonished that Sansa could ever have pressed her lips to the cruel mouth of a revolting creature such as him.

He doesn’t know why the little bird told her sister anything, but there is no point to denying it. He sinks to the bed and the pallet creaks with his weight. “Your pretty sister’s head is filled with songs.”

“Probably. But she basically told me that she can’t bear to live without you,” the little wolf mutters, making an unflattering “blech” sound at the end of her comment.

Sandor runs his hands over his hair, exposing his mangled ear nub. He has never been one for lying, so he sighs and voices what he has feared since Sansa first wrapped her arms around him, what he knew to be true the moment they arrived in the yard at Riverrun. “She needed me to help her come back to you and the rest of her family. She had no one in King’s Landing but Joffrey, and you see what kind of company he is. And me. She needed me, yes, and maybe she has convinced herself out of guilt that she -- cares for me. But she doesn’t, she couldn’t.” _Though I fooled myself into thinking differently, for a little while._ Sandor looks up and meets the girl’s eyes, and the firelight enhances the anger that is clearly rolling off of her. “Your sister will wed who King Robb tells her to and she’ll give them the brats they weren’t expecting her to have and she’ll keep a good home and make a good lady wife, and she will forget everything that came before that.”

“And what about you?” the little wolf asks, her eyes sparking with something that might be earnest curiosity. “Do you want to forget her?”

Sandor glares at her. “You speak out of turn, girl,” he growls in warning, but the girl is gazing up at him with those burning grey eyes and he feels like she can see straight through his scars and his rage and read the truth of the matter written plainly on his heart.

“You _do_ love her,” she says, and there is as much wonder as incredulity in her statement. 

“Get out,” the Hound hisses, and now he’s on his feet, his fists clenched and his eyes wild in the firelight. 

“Fine,” she grouses, not looking one bit scared of him, and she swings nimbly up onto the window ledge. She pokes her head out and gestures to somebody down below, then hops back down to the floor and steps off to one side. “But my sister is coming up to talk to you first.”

“Sansa?” the Hound asks in disbelief.

“Sandor!” The little bird’s face appears in the window and Sandor rushes over to help her inside. Her wet braided hair slaps him in the face as she tumbles into his arms. She is all wrapped up in some awful, ill-fitting bruise-colored gown, and her eyes are still red from crying, and she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. As she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses his scarred cheek, his own head seems suddenly to fill up with songs.

*_*_*_*

It is evening when Joffrey jerks awake to the sound of the cell door creaking open again. His stomach drops like a cannonball tossed into a barrel of pitch when an armored man with a dagger in one hand and a candle in the other steps into the room, but Joffrey calms down when several serving wenches trail behind the guard. Wordlessly, one woman pulls the rags from Joffrey’s frame as another sponges him down with warm water in a basin that turns black as the filth is washed from his body. The wenches dress him in roughspun garments that are scratchier than anything he has ever worn but are clean and louse-free. A third woman enters with a tray of sliced smoked sausages and a mushy-looking pear and a cup of dark beer, and Joffrey doesn’t even wait for her to hand the tray over before he starts attacking the food.

As Joffrey licks the last of the pear juice from his fingers, the servants and the guard exit, but they deposit the candle in a little nook and leave door open. Joffrey peers curiously through the archway. Surely he can’t just walk out. While he is trying to figure out how to proceed, he hears soft slow footsteps echoing in the hallway, and then from the darkness emerges the pale man with colorless eyes and a big wide mouth, the lord who asked for Joffrey’s recounting of his time on the road. 

“Lord Bolton?” Joffrey asks, perplexed.

Bolton drops to his knees and bows his head. “Your Grace,” he rasps softly. “You still have friends in the North.”

*_*_*_*_*

[to be continued]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I was nervous about introducing Sandor’s POV in this chapter, but it sort of felt like it was time. More coming. This fic grew into so much more than I had planned for it but I am starting to see the end in sight (far down the road, but it’s there). Thank you for reading, and thank you especially for commenting.


	9. River, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I offer your only chance for escape, your chance to exact revenge upon those who have wronged you.” 
> 
> Joffrey likes the sound of that. He tried earlier in the day to convince himself that destroying his captors' happiness would be enough to slake his thirst for vindication, but what he wants more than anything is Sansa's screams in the night, the Hound's blood dripping down the castle walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of plot and character set up in this chapter. Hopefully not too "talky". More coming soon.

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

*_*_*_*_*_*

“Forgive me, Your Grace, for the mummer’s show I put on before the pretender king,” Lord Bolton whispers to the floor where he kneels. Shadows dance across his pale, passive face as he dares to lift his head and look into Joffrey’s eyes. “I remain loyal to you alone.”

Joffrey glares down at the older man, then looks away toward the slit of black sky he can see through his tiny window. His stomach gurgles. He feels overfull from the meal he just ate, and his head swims from the beer, yet he wants another three plates full of food and another whole tankard of ale. Then he wants to lay back down in the straw and sleep. 

He doesn’t want to puzzle out whether the appearance of this man heralds a vile new trap or a wonderful opportunity, whether the Young Wolf has orchestrated some scheme with Bolton to get more information out of him and destroy his hostage status, or if the lord is loyal and presents a way for him to regain his kingship. Grandfather would be able to figure it out -- he would know who this Bolton person is, beyond some cold-eyed Northern lord with a gruesome sigil stitched to his clean velvet doublet -- but Grandfather is no doubt sleeping comfortably in the Tower of the Hand right now, not shivering here in a cell at Riverrun. Joffrey’s head pounds from exhaustion and confusion, and anger swells in his breast.

“Get up,” Joffrey commands, and his voice comes out hoarse from all the laughter that burbled from his mouth earlier. The lord rises compliantly, which puts Joffrey slightly more at ease. "I should have your head for the way you demanded that I speak before the Stark traitors,” he growls. Belatedly it occurs to him that perhaps he shouldn’t speak so cruelly to the lone figure purporting to help him, but after months of holding his tongue in the presence of Sansa and the Hound, Joffrey has grown tired of groveling. He stares up at the taller man, examining his face closely for any sign of impertinence.

But Bolton’s face remains neutral in the low light. “You are my king, and you would be right to cut down any true enemy of the crown. But I swear to you upon the life of my son that I sought only to undermine the pretender Robb in support of your cause.”

Joffrey narrows his eyes. He wants to believe that this man speaks truly -- he wants to believe that Robb has been suffering turncloaks in his midst, just as Joffrey did back home -- but he knows that he must proceed cautiously, as Mother no doubt would. At the very least, he must keep Bolton on the defensive. He takes a step toward the lord. “I am the one who made the wolves look like fools in their own den," he sneers, and the corner of his mouth turns upward at the memory of Robb's horrified expression, of Sansa's screams. "You had no way of knowing that I would dishonor them.”

“You are correct. But word of your cleverness reached us in the North. I hoped fervently that when you spoke, you would make the traitors appear weak."

"They _are_ weak!" Joffrey shrieks. How can Joffrey trust his purported rescuer if the man does not grasp this simple fact? He must impress upon his supposed savior the frailty of his enemies. "Do you know what I shall do to them when I am free? I'm going to kill them all -- the Starks will learn what it means to cross me, and they will tremble before my wrath, them and that craven dog of mine, and if you are deceiving me I will destroy you as well --" he carries on, hearing oaths of vengeance and blood spill from his mouth, and soon he has lost all control of his speech, and he is a little frightened as some of the laughter from earlier starts gurgling out, and suddenly he cannot catch his breath, and the room is spinning backwards --

"Your Grace!" Bolton hisses and he lurches forward, grabbing Joffrey by the shoulders. 

Joffrey gulps the cold air into his lungs and shrugs the lord's hands off of him. He cannot let the rage claim him now, cannot look helpless in front of Bolton, not when it is possible that the gods have finally delivered an opportunity to escape. But he must not risk that Bolton is being deceptive, or worse, incompetent. Still --

"You are wise to be suspicious of my claim," the lord rasps in that quiet cold voice, his ice-chip eyes pinned fearlessly to Joffrey's. Bolton's words are kind, but his tone is frosty. Inexplicably a shiver runs down Joffrey's spine and the hairs on his arm raise up with goosebumps. Bolton continues, "I offer your only chance for escape, your chance to exact revenge upon those who have wronged you.” 

Joffrey likes the sound of that. He tried earlier in the day to convince himself that destroying his captors' happiness would be enough to slake his thirst for vindication, but what he wants more than anything is Sansa's screams in the night, the Hound's blood dripping down the castle walls.

Bolton gazes at Joffrey with a hard, unreadable expression. It irritates and unnerves Joffrey; he can't tell what the man is thinking. But then in a flat voice the pale man expresses the one sentiment that Joffrey has wanted to hear since his coronation day. "Your Grace, they will sing songs of your fearful reign, if only you allow me to help you reclaim your throne.”

From another, the compliment would have sounded obsequious, a transparent effort to get something out of Joffrey or his family. Bolton issues it like a threat. Nevertheless, the sentiment rings pleasingly in Joffrey's ears. It’s been so long since anyone has said anything nice to Joffrey at all; he wants to believe that Bolton's words are filled with attainable promises, not meaningless flattery. “I can see that you are not a complete idiot,” he hedges. “Not like all the sycophants in King’s Landing who allowed the Stark bitch and the cowardly Hound to spirit me away in the midst of battle.”

Bolton inclines his head slightly in acceptance of the acknowledgement. His watery eyes look like glass in the candlelight. “Lord Tywin failed to keep you safe from the traitors. Now he schemes with the Tyrells to truncate your rule and crown your brother.”

Joffrey clenches his fists. He had told himself that such a notion would be acceptable, even preferable to a return to the throne after his ordeal, but now that the northern lord has voiced the scenario, Joffrey shakes with rage. How dare his own family plot against him, when they should have been saving him! Someday he will make Grandfather and the others pay for this insult. 

“The kingdom will suffer,"Joffrey declares. "Tommen is pliant and incapable of ruling as a king ought. He is like a little girl, with his kittens and his _dolls,_ ” he spits, his breath whistling through the gap between his teeth. Enraged with the way he sounds, he spins around and kicks the pile of straw and envisions ripping Sansa's teeth from her jaw with a blacksmith's pliers. He imagines stringing her molars on a chain and forcing the Hound to wear it like a collar as he is dragged to the gallows. Joffrey snorts at the idea and almost loses himself in the fantasy, but he reels back into the present as Bolton clears his throat. 

Lord Bolton’s smooth forehead creases very slightly, and Joffrey shakes off the last of the grisly mental images. He must not give the Northerner the misimpression that the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms is unsound of mind. He needs to put the lord back on guard. “How do you know my lord grandfather’s plans? Why should he have trusted you, when your men have marched against his?”

Bolton strokes his chin, as if he is still appraising Joffrey. “It pains me to say that for a time I feared you lost to our realm. After your traitor uncle attacked King’s Landing, Lord Tywin approached me to help carry out a plot to rid the North of the pretender, which I was very close to successfully carrying out. But now that the happy event has come to pass that you have been found alive --” for just a breath, Joffrey thinks he sees the man’s eyes narrow a fraction, as though perhaps Bolton isn't so very happy that Joffrey showed up, forcing him to give up whatever his original plans were. But then the lord blinks and Joffrey is sure it was just a shadow from the candlelight. “Now, I only desire to see you back on the throne, where you belong.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Joffrey sneers.

“It will not be easy, but it can be done. I have just come from a long council meeting with the pretender. I convinced him not to execute you right away, that it is in his interest to keep you alive for the moment --”

Joffrey swallows, and the blood drains from his face. He thought that his hostage status was too valuable to make him a candidate for execution. He becomes uncomfortably aware of the fullness of his bladder and the chill in the room. 

“-- if he cuts your head off now, it will seem as though he wishes to silence you -- he will effectively validate the truth of your words about his sister, his current heir --”

“Enough,” Joffrey mutters. A wave of vertigo washes over him and he takes a small step backward to to regain his balance. He can’t hear anything more of his possible impending death, not after he barely survived being dragged through the forest. “Tell me how you will rescue me when my grandfather couldn't do it, not with all the gold of Casterly Rock at his disposal.” _No one could find me, not once the Hound grew intent on keeping his lady love safe and happy,_ Joffrey thinks bitterly, remembering that last desperate, pathetic kiss the two traitors shared this very morning.

Lord Bolton nods slowly. “I do not wish to speak ill of your family, but I believe that Lord Tywin feared you were too strong for him to control. Your disappearance has given him a convenient reason to crown your sweet, agreeable brother."

Joffrey's fear subsides and white anger rushes in. Of course that is why the Lannister men who found him were bumbling fools that Sansa and the Hound dispatched easily. Grandfather had only sent out his most incompetent, least trustworthy men as a search party.

Lord Bolton moves to the slit window and glances down, into the yard. A ray of moonlight shines on his face and his skin is so pale that he reminds Joffrey of a corpse. "If I do not leave soon, my presence will be missed and the pretender's men may suspect me of treachery. But I will be back soon." He turns back toward Joffrey. "Men who are loyal to me, by blood or by bribe, are guarding your tower for now. I cannot guarantee that they will remain there. I shall personally spirit you out at the first opportunity, perhaps as soon as tomorrow night. We will take a small escort to ensure your safety, and travel on foot through the forest for a short distance --” here, Joffrey grimaces, but Lord Bolton seems not to notice, “then cross the river east and meet up with a host from House Frey, an ancient and worthy family who remains loyal to you.”

Joffrey doesn’t want to flee like a coward, not now. He wants Bolton to take a torch to Riverrun and burn it to the ground with Robb and all of his followers inside. But even more than that, he wants to get out of this hellhole. Joffrey tries to keep his voice even as he says, “And what do you want, after you help me?”

Bolton seems ready for this question. “Your Grace knows that I should say that I require nothing but your favor. But you are a clever young man who understands the way the world works."

Joffrey nods uneasily. He likes that Bolton has called him clever, but the man's confidence unsettled him.

"I ask for three things," Bolton continues. "First, I ask that you name me Warden of the North, to allow me to demand fealty from all current Stark bannermen.”

“Obviously,” Joffrey almost rolls his eyes. He exhales in relief at the request. It should go without saying that the only Northerner loyal to the crown should be named its Warden. Joffrey wonders momentarily whether he should place his trust in someone so unimaginative. But Northerners aren’t known for their great imagination, not if Sansa is any indication.

“Second, I ask that you legitimize my only living child, a natural son, and allow me to name him my heir.”

“Done,” Joffrey agrees quickly. He shouldn't have worried about Bolton's demands. Who cares about some Northern bastard who wants to inherit a land of snow? 

“And finally,” here Bolton pauses, clears his throat, “Name me Hand of the King. I can ensure the submission of the realm under your rule. Your rule _alone,_ without the interference of your lord grandfather.”

Joffrey was expecting another piddling request, and he almost says “Granted” before he fully comprehends what Bolton wants. But as he considers it, he realizes that the idea makes sense. The lord who rescues the king should receive many great awards. And Grandfather has failed at all the duties of the Hand -- at keeping the kingdom together, at keeping Joffrey safe -- undoubtedly he will need to be replaced anyway. Rage surges in Joffrey’s breast as he thinks that he, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, was prepared for even a moment to beg his old grandfather for a place at Casterly Rock. “Rescue me as you have promised, and you shall become Hand of the King,” he tells his new ally.

Bolton bows his head deeply, reverently. The gesture fills Joffrey with a heady rush of power that he has missed for so long. But Bolton should know who he is dealing with as well; Joffrey is ready to give him a taste of that. “You’ve named your conditions. Now, agree to mine.”

“I shall do as my king commands.”

“At the first opportunity, you will kill Robb’s queen and his lady mother and that creepy dark little sister of his. I won’t have his family running around threatening my rule.”

Bolton’s mouth twitches just slightly, and Joffrey suddenly feels embarrassed and angry. The Starks would threaten Bolton’s power base more than they could threaten Joffrey's. But the lord nods slowly, without any hint that he interprets Joffrey’s comment as evidence that the king is an inexperienced green boy.

“Second, if your forces can take the Young Wolf alive, you will bring him to King’s Landing for a public beheading. If you cannot, you will recover his head to adorn a spike atop the Red Keep.”

“I am here to serve. Once we have combined our forces with the Freys and the southron lords, it is only a matter of time before House Stark falls.”

“Third -- and this is most critical of all --” Joffrey stresses each syllable. He cannot emphasize this point enough. “You will capture Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane, and you will bring them to me personally.” He grins and recalls all the ways he imagined torturing his two tormentors during all those days he was tied to the saddle. But then a grim possibility enters his head. He must not allow such a thing come to pass. “If anyone kills them before they are brought to me, that person will suffer all the pains I had planned to bring down upon the traitors.”

Here, Bolton pauses for a moment too long. He sighs quietly -- could it be that he dares to pass judgement on Joffrey’s command? 

“You will do this!” Joffrey screeches. Another dribble of spit drips down his chin and furiously he wipes it away with the scratchy sleeve of his borrowed tunic. “They are mine, and I will make them pay for what they did to me.”

Bolton blinks once, and he nods again. “Your Grace will see them writhe in agony.” He reaches into his belt and pulls out a pointy bejeweled dagger, and Joffrey flinches, remembering Sansa’s heated knife sizzling against the flesh in his mouth. Bolton clearly notices, for he cautiously hands the dagger to Joffrey by the hilt.

Joffrey clutches it, puzzled. The rubies on the handle glint in the flickering candlelight. “What is this for?” he asks suspiciously.

“My flaying knife. A symbol of my loyalty. Hide it in the straw.” 

Joffrey presses the tip of his finger to the point, and a droplet of blood wells up. The sight invigorates him. Soon he will spill the blood of all who wronged him.

“For now, keep it to use defensively. When I am your Hand, I shall show you how to strip your enemies of their secrets.” He pats the flayed man sigil on his breast.

Joffrey grins, and Bolton gives him a tight, closed-lipped smile. _Yes, this man understands me, truly,_ Joffrey thinks. _He will make a worthy Hand, when I am back upon the Iron Throne._

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Sansa didn't exactly tell Arya the truth earlier. Not completely, anyway. Sansa _is_ still a maiden, strictly speaking, but the things that she did with Sandor that one night as Joffrey dreamed feverishly by the campfire wouldn’t exactly be classified as innocent or chaste. And now at this moment when Sandor's arms are wrapped around her waist and his hard torso is pressed against her curves, she can’t help but recall everything about that night, when his tongue finally slipped past her teeth as he kissed her, when his warm rough fingers brushed against her bare skin as his hands finally strayed beneath her squire’s clothes, when he finally promised her that if everything went well when they presented Joffrey to Robb, he would find a way to serve the Starks and stay with her. That last part hadn’t exactly come to pass, but now that Sansa is standing on her tiptoes to kiss Sandor’s scarred cheek, all she feels is relief that her love is once again in her arms.

“Seven hells, I’m right _here,_ ” Arya grunts, crabby and scrunched up on the window ledge. Sandor pushes Sansa away and mutters something crude in response.

Sansa wants to castigate both of them for their crassness, but there is no time for that. Besides, she isn’t exactly in a position to pass judgement, standing here in her beloved’s chambers with only her little sister as a chaperone. “What is the plan, Arya?” she asks, smoothing down the old-fashioned ruffles of her skirt and wishing that she had some of her pretty gowns from Winterfell.

“ _You_ said you needed to talk to him, so do that. I need to go get -- something -- right now," Arya replies mysteriously. "I’ll return in an hour to help you sneak back to our room.” She slips her legs out the window and flops her belly onto the ledge. “Don’t make me regret that I brought you here.”

"Never," Sansa swears, glancing at the scruffy and unlikely object of adoration out of the corner of her eye. Gratitude for her sister fills her heart, and before Arya can disappear, Sansa blurts out, "Thank you, Arya. No one else could have helped me as you have."

Arya squints at Sansa, clearly surprised by the words of thanks, and Sansa feels a pang of remorse for the petty, unkind way she once treated her sister. She opens her mouth to say more, but Arya holds a finger up to her lips. “Quiet as a mouse,” she urges, and pops out into the darkness.

As soon as Arya is gone, Sandor engulfs Sansa in his arms again. She rests her cheek against the wool of his ill-fitting tunic and breathes in, smelling wool and soap. She has so much to say to him, but her words are stuck to the roof of her mouth. 

Before she can voice her thoughts, Sandor releases her and takes a step backward, then sinks onto his pallet to pull a pair of stockings onto his bare feet. Sansa steals a longer look at him while he’s grumbling to himself about the clothes. The tent-like tunic does little to obscure his muscular frame, and the hem of his breeches stop a handspan higher than they should. She notices the toes of his old filthy boots under the bed; the cobbler at Riverrun must not have had a single pair of shoes that fit Sandor. Sansa wiggles her toes in her soft borrowed slippers, relieved to have finally disposed of the cracked riding boots that pinched her toes, and feeling bad for her warrior. 

Sandor looks up at her expectantly, and Sansa is suddenly overcome with unbearable shyness as she realizes that this is the first time they have been truly, totally alone since he spirited her from her chambers during the battle of Blackwater. It’s been so long since she’s seen his face scrubbed clean that he seems almost unfamiliar to her. She drops her eyes to the floor and shifts her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

She hears the creak of the bedframe as he stands up. She hopes that he will come and embrace her again, or take her hand, or give her some signal that he cares for her the way she knows he does, but he just sighs, a dry and aggravated breath of air. “Can’t look me in the face now that I’ve delivered you safely to your family?” he grunts, the old ugly anger blackening his voice, but now a tinge of regret colors his words as well.

Sansa lifts her chin and forces herself to meet Sandor’s eyes. Now she is angry too. “Stop that,” she admonishes harshly, a little of the courage she developed in the forest coming back to her. He looks surprised and annoyed. She takes a step toward him, but she can’t quite bring herself to touch him yet. “I did not come here to listen cruel words from you.”

He snorts and crosses his strong arms over his massive chest. “You shouldn’t have come here at all. Shouldn’t have told your sister anything --” he starts ranting.

“I trust her, just as I trust you,” Sansa cuts him off. The scarred side of his mouth twitches and he still looks angry, but a little ashamed now too. She takes another step forward, close enough to reach out and place her hand on his face, but he flinches, and she drops her fist to her side. “Sandor, I know that with -- with what Joffrey said, this isn’t exactly how we hoped that we would be welcomed --”

“ _Welcomed?!_ ” he barks. Someone laughs loud and muffled on the other side of the door, and Sandor and Sansa both freeze. For a terror-filled moment Sansa thinks that the guards will burst in and discover her here, but then the person shouts something and his companion guffaws in response, and she hears them shuffling further down the hall. Still, Sandor whispers when he finally continues, “You got slandered by the bastard king in front of your brother’s whole court, and I got thrown into this luxury prison cell. Some welcome.” 

Sansa purses her lips in frustration. She wants Sandor’s joy and hope, not his insouciance and cynicism. _Our time together did not gentle his rage as much as I thought it did,_ she thinks sadly. _Or perhaps coming to Riverrun has brought it all back._ “You told me many months ago that crying wouldn’t help us stay alive,” she says, and is seized with relief over the fact that Sandor did not witness her recent bout of sobbing in the bathtub. “Complaining about the state of things here won’t help us either. Let us discuss how we might make the best of our situation now.”

Sandor laughs mirthlessly and carries on as though he didn’t hear her. He stares at the flames in the fireplace. “I should have cut out Joffrey’s tongue the night we escaped the city. Then he wouldn’t have been able to spread those lies.”

She agrees with Sandor silently, but it’s too late to wish to change the past. She takes one more step forward and gently, carefully takes his large hand in her two smaller ones, examining the contrast in the firelight. Her skin was once milky white and smooth, but now her nails are ragged and her palms are crusty with healing blisters. “We aren’t as different as we once were,” she observes, as much to herself as to him, and he smirks in response.

“You’re still a highborn princess. I’m still a Lannister turncloak. A few callouses in common won’t change that.”

“You weren’t the only one who brought Joffrey to my brother. It was my idea in the first place, and we only made it here alive because we worked together.”

“Aye,” he agrees with her for what seems like the first time all night. “And you think that if you sing of your heroics to King Robb, he’ll grant you freedom to choose your own life’s path?”

Sansa can’t quite read the look on his face; his scars look exaggerated in the firelight. The disbelief in his tone tells her what he thinks about her plan, though. Still, she must try. “You know the path I would choose, don’t you?”

Sandor slips his hand out of her grasp and slides his arm around her waist and pulls her down onto his knee. She exhales, feeling calm for the first time in what seems like months, and she places her arms around his neck. “Little bird,” he breathes, tucking his nose beneath her chin and inhaling. “Sansa. If you want to throw your prospects away for -- me, I can’t stop you --” Sansa starts to protest, but Sandor shushes her. “Even if your brother agrees, which I doubt he will, I can’t.”

His rejection cuts her even deeper than Joffrey’s lies. The tears well up and she tries unsuccessfully to blink them back. Why must Sandor be so stubborn, so cruel, when it is so obvious that he should find a way to be with her? 

“. . . not yet, anyway.”

Sansa holds her breath. She swallows and digs her nails into the back of his neck, urging him to say more. “What’s stopping you?” she whispers.

“Gregor.” He shifts back from her and holds her by the shoulders, looks into her eyes hard. “I swore that one day I would kill him for what he did to my family, and to me.” He gestures to the ruined half of his face.

“Your scars do not frighten me, not anymore --”

“It’s not that,” he says, though he presses a quick kiss to the top of her forehead in acknowledgement of her words. “You saw what he did to that village. While that monster lives, I can’t ever --” he groans and looks away so that his face is obscured in the shadows. “I couldn’t love you the way you deserve,” he mumbles into the darkness. “And you couldn’t possibly want an accursed kinslayer --”

Sansa’s eyes widen, and quickly, without thinking about it, she claps his cheeks with her palms and turns his face to hers and presses her lips hard to his. He didn’t say that he loves her, not exactly, but it was close enough. “Never call that brute your kin,” she says. Sandor’s eyes are open and staring down at her incredulously as she kisses him again. 

“I understand the need to get revenge on your tormentor,” Sansa continues, thinking of Joffrey’s demand that she stare at father’s severed head; remembering the sting of the bruises that bloomed where Ser Meryn’s fists slammed against her face. “Come with me when I talk to Robb. We can ask that he give you command of a garrison of men to defeat Gregor. There is no one better suited to the task than you, and no better way to prove your loyalty to the North.”

Sandor crushes her against him and nearly drives the air from her lungs with the force of his embrace. Her nose is rather awkwardly shoved into his armpit but she smiles all the same. “Wise little bird,” he mutters into her hair. “Should I start calling you an owl?”

“Call me your wife, someday.”

He snorts derisively, but he lifts her face to his and kisses her all the same.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Climbing up the dead vine was hard, but climbing down is harder. Bran always made it look so easy, back before -- but the last thing Arya wants to think about at this moment is the way her dead little brother fell and became a cripple. 

In any case, she makes it to the ground and creeps along the shadow of the castle wall, the moonlight illuminating the yard in black-blues and greys. Arya reflects that Sansa and the Hound should be safe together, as long as they keep it quiet -- the Mormont guards are skilled with their axes, but Arya’s never known them to be especially observant on those nights when she has crept past them, and they are unlikely to check on Sandor unless he starts shouting or moving furniture around.

Arya floats through the darkness like a ghost on the other side of the yard from where soldiers stand attentively at the tower where Joffrey is being kept. She smirks as she passes not a half dozen yards from the men, who clearly have no idea that she is lurking here in the darkness. She likes to imagine that Nymeria is doing the same out in the wilderness somewhere, hunting for game, sniffing for her pack, maybe searching for her mate. Arya wishes once again that she had driven Lady off on that horrible day that Queen Cersei ordered the wolf’s death; perhaps the two sister direwolves would be hunting down Lannister troops together.

A few minutes later she is back at the forge, where she finds Gendry all alone and bundled up in a dusty old cloak, poking at the embers in the great hot pit with an iron rod. At first she is surprised that he’s not back in the barracks with the other apprentices and servants, but then she remembers that sometimes the chief blacksmith tasks him with sleeping in the forge all night to keep the coals hot for the morning. 

“Arya,” Gendry greets her without looking away from the pit. He doesn’t sound as surprised to see her as she thought he would be. And he’s getting better at noticing her presence before she shows herself, though he is still woefully inept at listening with his ears compared to her. At least he is not “mi’lady-ing” her now.

“I need my sword,” Arya demands, and opens the half gate to let herself in to the open-walled structure, staying in the shadows. 

“I could have given it to you tomorrow,” he responds as he turns toward her voice. His expression looks as though he is annoyingly concerned for her well-being. “You and your family had a difficult afternoon. I’m sure your sister needs you right now.” 

Arya rolls her eyes as she imagines what Sansa is doing right now. Her sister is probably sighing little ladylike sniffles while the Hound slobbers all over her face. “Sansa’s just fine,” Arya mutters flatly. She wishes she could tell her friend how she snuck Sansa into the Hound’s room so that they could declare their love for one another in some stupid, songlike, tearful confession, but then Gendry would probably just give her some more worried doleful stares. 

Gendry stands and stretches, then saunters over to a wooden chest beneath his workbench. He pops open the lid and pulls out Needle, which Arya grabs and slides with a satisfying _thock_ back into her scabbard on her belt. “And you?” Gendry asks, lingering by Arya’s side. “Are you ‘just fine’?” he asks, his concerned stare making Arya feel uncomfortable and warm and irritated. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she huffs, and she looks away so that she doesn’t have to look at his stupid face any longer. Out of the corner of her eye she catches movement across the yard. A pair of serving girls carrying an empty tray and a wooden pail emerge from the door leading to the tower where Joffrey is being kept, and a man-at-arms and says something to the guard at the threshold. 

“That’s strange,” Arya whispers, jerking her chin toward the servants hurrying back to their quarters. “Joffrey was shut up there hours ago. Nobody else should be in there right now.”

“What do you know about prisoner care? Maybe they are just cleaning his chamber pot or something,” Gendry shrugs. He turns back to the pit and goes to pick up his iron rod.

Arya smacks his hand. “Leave that for now. Let’s go see what they are up to.”

He looks like he is going to protest, but then he just heaves a sigh and pulls his cloak closer about his shoulders. Arya leads him along the path through the shadows in the direction that the servants are headed, past the door to Joffrey’s tower. To Arya’s ears Gendry’s footsteps sound as loud as his hammer hitting an anvil, but when she glances back at the guards they don’t seem to have noticed anything. The men are fire-blinded from the torches above them anyway, and to the extent that they hear any noise at all they probably think it is just the servants. But just as Arya and Gendry make it across the yard, she hears the door to the tower opening again.

She flattens herself against the castle wall, deep in the shadows and urges Gendry to do the same. Neither of them so much as breathe as a figure emerges from the doorway.

“Lord Bolton,” the guards mutter and nod. Arya’s eyes bulge nearly out of their sockets as the lord glides in their direction, his cold pale face shining bright in the moonlight, his cloak billowing behind him. The man passes by her, his boots crunching in the gravel of the yard, and she swears he should be able to hear her heartbeat, it is so loud in her ears. But he keeps walking, headed toward the suites where he and his retainers sleep. 

Gendry sighs in relief and Arya wants to reach over and punch him in the face for making such a thunderous noise. But she can’t do so, because Lord Bolton stops in his tracks. 

The lord turns around slowly. “Show yourself,” he rasps, and Arya’s stomach flips upside down. But she has no choice; she shakes her hair in her face and pulls Gendry out into the exposed, lit-up yard alongside her. The two of them stare down at their toes. Arya knows that Gendry is even more terrified than she is that Bolton will realize that they both once served him at Harrenhall.

“The young princess,” the lord rasps, his voice like snow falling from a rooftop. Arya makes a messy curtsey and Gendry bows low. “And one of her many commoner friends. What are the two of you doing out here by the prisoner’s tower, after such a taxing afternoon?” 

Arya and Gendry look at one another, and to Arya’s relief, Gendry speaks first. “She wanted her sword, m’lord,” Gendry mumbles, pointing to Needle on her hip. “I was fixing it for her.”

“Her sword,” Bolton echoes, in the same tone of voice that he might have said “her overflowing chamber pot” or “her bag of fish guts.” “Myself, I was checking on the prisoner’s guards, to ensure that there is no chance of escape. A rather better reason than you have, don’t you think?”

Arya stares in the direction of Bolton’s belt and bites her tongue. There is something off, something different about his attire, but she can’t place the change while her heartbeat is pounding in her ears and her fear is constricting her abdomen. She dare not speak now, not when Bolton is gazing at her suspiciously, not when her voice might trigger a memory of his shaggy-headed cupbearer from a few years back. She nods, her chin to her chest. 

“In any case, it seems that you have retrieved your weapon,” Lord Bolton whispers. “The castle yard is no place for ladies to skulk around at night, Princess Arya. Must I accompany you back to your chambers?” 

Arya clenches her fists at her sides, and she stares harder at Bolton’s belt. Something is missing, something important -- _the flaying knife!_ she realizes, and she just barely keeps her face composed as she realizes with horror, but not exactly surprise, that Bolton is planning to betray her brother.

“I’ll see that she gets back safe, m’lord,” Gendry stutters, and Arya nods again. She knows Bolton’s secret now. She’ll deliver Sansa back to their room, and then she’ll sneak up to Robb -- she can’t trust anyone else with the news; she must tell him directly --

“See that you do,” Bolton commands, and Arya turns away, relieved, thrumming with the need to carry out her plan.

Together she and Gendry start scurrying toward the castle wing where Arya’s chambers are located. Arya resists the urge to turn around; she knows that Bolton is watching her. When they finally round a corner, Arya skips back into the shadows and drags Gendry with her. They lean against the cold castle walls, catching their breath, and they both speak at once.

“That was close!” Gendry exclaims, as Arya declares, “Bolton’s helping Joffrey!”

“What? You’re imagining things. He was checking on the guards, just like he said,” Gendry scoffs.

“His flaying knife was missing. The little pointy thing with the rose gold and the rubies. I’ve never seen him without it. He even kept it on the bed with him when he was getting leeched. He had it on his waist in the hall this very afternoon. He must have left it with Joffrey! Maybe he told Joffrey to slit the guards’ throats --”

“Arya,” Gendry hisses, clearly struggling to keep his voice down as he fumbles around and grabs her by the shoulders. “I despise his lordship as much as you do, but you’re just making stuff up.”

“You’re wrong. That business in the hall this afternoon, and those servants, and the knife --”

“Maybe he’s up to something, but if _you’re_ wrong, your brother will confront his loyal bannerman and he’ll find out about you and me lurking around the castle late at night. He’ll think you’re crazy and lock you up in your room, and _I’ll_ get punished for being out here with you. They’ll throw me out of Riverrun.”

Arya hadn’t thought about that. She is sure that she’s right, but Bolton’s excuse would probably sound reasonable to Robb, and she and Gendry would probably get in trouble for spying. She’ll need to get more proof before she can go to Robb. Arya grinds her teeth in disappointment. “Fine. I won’t tell Robb yet,” she says as she shrugs Gendry’s hands from her shoulders. “But I want you to help me keep a close eye on who goes in and out of that tower and report back to me.”

Gendry makes a noncommittal grunt, but Arya knows that he will do as she asks. “Well, see you tomorrow,” she whispers abruptly, and starts creeping back in the direction of the Hound’s chambers.

Gendry groans. “Now what? I told the lord that I would make sure you got to your room --”

“I have to get Sansa.”

“ _What_? Isn’t she --”

“No.” Arya provides Gendry a hushed, hurried explanation of the complicated situation with her sister and the Hound; she can’t really see Gendry’s face in the darkness, but she knows he is angry by the way she hears him holding his breath.

“It doesn’t matter what you or I think. She is in _love_ ,” Arya grumbles.

“It sounds like they are both in love,” Gendry whispers, and he sounds a little sad. “The Hound brought your sister here safely, after all.”

“Buggering lot of good it did her,” Arya replies, wishing that her sister had brought only Joffrey’s head with her to Riverrun, instead of the rest of the little abomination.

Gendry reaches out and claps his hand on Arya’s shoulder roughly. “It was good of you to help your sister.” His hand slips down her forearm and Arya’ face feels hot again. “Go retrieve the princess. I’ll keep watch for you and make sure that you both get back to your room safely.”

Arya nods, but that is stupid of her since he can’t really see her in the darkness. She mumbles “Alright,” and feels awash in gratitude that Gendry is part of her pack.

*_*_*_*_*_*

That night, as Arya lies in bed next to her sleeping, smiling sister, she dreams the scent of a dozen wild-eyed horses racing west across the riverlands, with riders that smell of damp castle stones and leather and sweaty excitement.

*_*_*_*_*_*

 

[to be continued]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note re: Joffrey and mental illness: I am portraying Joffrey as a guy with serious mental health issues, which probably already existed but which were exacerbated by months of constant fear, near starvation, infection, and field surgery. HOWEVER, I have tried to make it clear that he is an unsympathetic character because he is spoiled, arrogant, and lacks empathy, not because of his mental health problems. I put this note here because I do not usually think that mental health issues, unto themselves, are reasons for a character to be unsympathetic. However, I'm not confident enough that the text itself makes that clear.
> 
> Also: Thank you for your comments now and previously. You have kept this story going and have made me a better writer these past several months. I haven't always responded but I am going to change that with this chapter because I really appreciate the comments and I should be telling you that personally!


	10. River, Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mother sighs, and Sansa hears the scrape of the chair on the floor. “You may go to Clegane’s chamber and speak through the door to hear his requests so that you might bring them to Robb, but understand that the Northerners still see him as a Lannister man -- possibly even the messenger for some kind of contemptible, honorless treaty. I know you do not believe that Clegane could do such a thing, but a private meeting with the king so soon after your arrival would seem --”
> 
> “Of course, Mother,” Sansa agrees, sighing to herself. “I will do as you say.” _But I will still get what I want_ , she resolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here, have 8000 words of lead-up. Kinda talky at the beginning but more stuff happens :D
> 
> Warning: Brief non-explicit mention of Bolton-type abuse. Brief violence perpetrated by Joffrey.

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

Sansa awakens feeling warmer than she has felt in months; warmer than she can ever remember feeling. During her flight from King’s Landing, after she would finish her watch and Sandor would let her snuggle up against him as he sat up to take his turn on guard, she would always fall asleep with a chill in her nostrils and wake up cold and damp all over. But this morning, Sansa is ensconced in a borrowed woolen night shift and stockings; she has burrowed down beneath the heavy blankets atop the cozy feather-stuffed mattress. Compared to her nights on the freezing ground, she is practically roasting on both sides. Wait, on both sides? Sansa’s eyelids pop open.

On Sansa’s right side, Arya sits atop the covers already wearing her boys’ clothes, her face pale in the weak dawn light. As Sansa watches, the dark-haired girl pulls on her boots quickly and quietly and starts pinning back some ragged bangs that fall across her forehead. 

Sansa looks to her left. Her mother lays curled on her side toward Sansa, deep in sleep, with her brow furrowed and her shut eyes sunken and encircled in dark rings. Sansa didn’t notice the day before, but now she sees that the hair at her mother’s temples is streaked with grey; the older woman’s face is thinner and paler than when Sansa left Winterfell. Her mother must have crawled atop the covers of the girls’ bed and pulled her own cloak over her body before collapsing into her dreams without even changing out of the red velvet gown she wore in the great hall yesterday. 

Sansa sits up and leans toward her mother, but Arya notices and shakes her head. “Shh, don’t wake her. She always stays up late with Robb and his advisors, but sometimes she comes in here afterwards. I’m usually asleep by then though.” Arya sucks her lower lip over her teeth and glances toward the glowing embers and grey ashes left in the hearth from last night’s fire. She starts to rise. “I’ll go tell the maid to send up some food for both of you, and if Mother is still asleep we can talk some more.” 

Sansa grabs her sister’s hand before she can leave and studies the darker girl’s odd expression. Arya has grown into her face a little, though her eyes have a coldness to them where once there was only hot quick anger. Sansa wonders if her own eyes now reflect the same ice. “Arya, why did you help me see --” she looks toward her mother again, whose breathing remains even, but Sansa lowers her voice to a whisper all the same, “Why did you help me go to _him_ last night?”

Arya gazes down and fiddles with a leather strap on her jerkin, but she doesn’t answer. Her lips are pursed and her eyes are narrowed with the same nervous exasperated look that she had on her face the previous night after she guided Sansa down the dead rope-like vine. Sansa had tried to ask Arya the question as they were sneaking back toward their room, but Arya had just shushed her and grumbled, “You’re shuffling your feet as loud as a bloody blacksmith,” whatever that meant, and Sansa had stayed silent after that. She had tried to ask again when they returned to their chambers, but then one of the maids had come in to stoke the fire, and Sansa had fallen asleep before Arya had even finished changing into her night shift.

Arya smooths the strap down and turns her head to peer at Sansa appraisingly. She takes a deep breath and looks down again, picking at a loose thread on the bedspread. “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.” 

It sounds like a moral that belongs to one of Old Nan’s ghost stories, but if it is, it’s not one that Sansa remembers. All she can think about is the feel of Lady’s soft warm fur against her cheek and her dead wolf’s loving, trusting eyes. But Arya’s right -- Lady is gone, and Sansa is still here, back with her family at last. 

Arya rolls the thread between her fingers, twisting it into a skinny helix. “The only reason you are alive is because the Hound brought you here. He helped the pack survive.”

Sansa takes her sister’s hand in hers and notices how similarly ragged their nails look. She smiles and squeezes Arya’s fingers in loving appreciation and understanding. Arya is not offering forgiveness for Sandor’s crimes, but she is acknowledging the good he has done. It’s enough for Sansa, for now.

An almost-smirk twitches across Arya’s face before she snorts loudly and wipes the mucus across the shoulder of the boy’s jerkin she wears. 

There is a cough from the other side of the bed, and both sisters glance toward their mother. 

“I need to go. I have a rat to catch,” Arya mutters. As their mother stirs, Arya hisses, “I’ll explain more when Mother isn’t here.” She rises and slips out of the room without another word, opening and shutting the door almost silently. Sansa half-wonders if Arya means an actual, literal rat, remembering the scratches on her sister’s arms in King’s Landing after her supposed dancing lessons.

Sansa’s mother rubs at her eyes with the heels of her hand. She groans and sits up, and smiles, exhaustion etched in the lines around her mouth. “So it wasn’t just a dream that you came back to me,” she croaks, her voice rough from sleep and possibly overuse.

Sansa embraces her mother quickly and kisses her brow. “Allow me to bring you a cup of water, Mother,” she offers as she places her stockinged feet on the cold stone floor, then pads over to the table by the hearth. She picks up the heavy earthenware pitcher and pours liquid into two chalices and the corners of her mouth turn upward in wonderment, in spite of all her remaining problems. The simple act of drinking water out of a clean container that does not taste of leather and moss seems downright opulent now, and Sansa will enjoy it gratefully.

Sansa’s mother rises and shakes out the skirts of her crumpled gown. She joins her daughter at the table. “I wanted to come to you earlier, but I was waylaid by Robb's advisors. I have learned that the mother of a king has significantly more demands than the wife of the Warden in the North.” She gives Sansa a sad smile, and Sansa knows she must be remembering Father. Hopefully Mother recalls him from happy times back in Winterfell; thanks to Joffrey, Sansa must stuff down the image of the severed head every time she thinks of him. 

Two servants arrive carrying trays heaped with sweet-smelling delicacies, and Sansa swallows as she gazes at boiled eggs in little enamel-painted bowls, and a big silver tureen of honey-drizzled oat porridge, and a steaming-hot plum pie, and goblets of apple cider, and two fresh white fish filets swimming in melted butter. As she sits down with her mother to eat, she can’t help but recall the cold wriggling tadpoles sliding down her throat and of the sound of Sandor’s rasping laughter when the slimy green things came right back up and out moments later. Sansa silently swears to any of the gods who are listening that she will never, ever again take a good meal for granted. She reaches for a slice of pie.

Mother helps herself to the porridge, folding the honey in with her spoon. "It pained me to leave you yesterday afternoon after --"

"Please don't apologize,” Sansa interrupts, her words coming out muffled around the flaky pie crust in her mouth. She blushes at her appalling lack of manners and pats at her lips with her napkin. Apparently starving in the woods with only Joffrey and Sandor for company seriously compromised her once-enviable courtesies. “Arya explained that Robb needed you." She takes a quick bite of egg white before conversation can slow down breakfast consumption any further.

Mother lowers her eyes and her spoon. "Yes, but after that pretender _bastard_ \-- Joffrey --" She stops and clenches her fist on the table, the flesh around the scars on her fingers swelling purple. “Sansa, we must discuss something distressing, but important. Much was said yesterday about -- your knowledge of a man --” 

Sansa takes a sip of the cider, then another because it tastes as good as any drink she has ever had, and even the memory of Joffrey’s hateful words cannot dull its flavor. "He lied, Mother. I remain innocent." _Mostly,_ she thinks to herself, and her cheeks flush with the memory of Sandor’s lips on hers yesterday morning _and_ evening.

Mother says nothing, but she pushes the porridge away, and she looks closely at Sansa’s eyes, her hairline, her mouth, her night shift. The look in the older woman’s eyes as good as says that she does not believe Sansa’s claim.

Sansa shifts in her chair and knows she must be blushing now, for her cheeks and ears burn as hotly as if she had spent an afternoon beneath the clear Dornish skies. She gazes at her plate and pulls the delicate bones from her fish filet and feels oddly irritated that her mother thinks she would conceal the truth from her own family. But then again, why should Mother or anyone else believe what she has said of the matter? Sansa herself is surprised that she has survived eighteen years with her head still on her shoulders. The enduring presence of her maidenhead defies belief. 

Mother reaches over and places her hand on Sansa’s wrist, and when Sansa looks across the table she sees red in the older woman’s cheeks as well. “As you grew into a lady, your septas and I taught you the importance of guarding your maiden’s gift to give to your future husband.” She pauses, waiting for Sansa to respond, but Sansa holds her tongue. “That advice long preceded the tragedy that befell our family. Now, I am simply grateful to the gods who returned you to me. No one -- not me, not Robb -- would shun you if you had given up your gift, willingly or not, in order to stay alive and come back to us.” 

The words come as a welcome surprise to Sansa, and her heart fills with love. Even if her family never completely believes her when she says that she is, despite all odds, still innocent, their love for her remains unquestionable, unconditional. Sansa nods and sniffles, swallows her sorrow.

Two new servants return into the room, and Sansa and her mother awkwardly fall silent. One maid clears the table while the other adds a log to the hearth. They seem to dawdle at their tasks, though, as if they are waiting to see whether the ladies will say anything worth gossiping about later.

The maids give up finally, and as they close the door behind them, Sansa speaks again. “As I’ve told you many times, Joffrey is a liar. Queen Cersei refused to let him touch me for fear that Robb would execute her brother Ser Jaime. Joffrey still ordered his guards to beat me, though. Not Clegane,” she adds as her mother’s face crumples in anguish. Mother should have realized by now that Sandor would never hurt her. He loves her. He promised the former, and he all but confessed the latter. “Never Clegane. He helped me where he could.” 

Her mother seems relieved, a little, but still guarded. She sighs, then gives Sansa a hopeful smile. “In any case, that bastard pretender’s words were terrible, but he won’t affect your marriage prospects as badly as you might fear." She seems to think that Sansa will be pleased by this notion.

Sansa's stomach drops. "What do you mean?"

"There are many fine men who will want to marry a princess of the North, maidenhead or not, though admittedly, the claim of barrenness will be more difficult to suppress --”

Sansa grinds her teeth, and it is all she can do to keep herself from marching right up to Joffrey’s cell and knocking some more of his teeth out. "Mother, please let us not discuss this now. After what I experienced at King's Landing I have little interest in marriage discussions so soon after I have arrived."

Mother nods in agreement. "Of course, daughter. Now that we have Joffrey, we have more to bargain with than just marriage alliances." Her mother sets her jaw grimly as the fire pops in the hearth. “But after we have settled what to do with the pretender king, we shall have to discuss it.”

Sansa rises and walks to the window; she gazes through the bubbled pane of glass. The sky is a sheet of slate, and Sansa shivers. “I do need to talk to Robb today, to tell him what I know of King’s Landing. Perhaps it shall help him determine how best to use Joffrey. And surely Clegane deserves an audience with the king as well, for his service to our family.” She hopes that she sounds regal, rather than as though she is begging. 

Mother sighs, and Sansa hears the scrape of the chair on the floor. “You may go to Clegane’s chamber and speak through the door to hear his requests so that you might bring them to Robb, but understand that the Northerners still see him as a Lannister man -- possibly even the messenger for some kind of contemptible, honorless treaty. I know you do not believe that Clegane could do such a thing, but a private meeting with the king so soon after your arrival would seem --”

“Of course, Mother,” Sansa agrees, sighing to herself. “I will do as you say.” _But I will still get what I want_ , she resolves.

After a bit more conversation, Sansa’s mother excuses herself to meet with some of the Tully land smallfolk, explaining that since both her uncle and brother are still leading military campaigns in the west, she must serve as castellan in their absence. Sansa kisses her cheek and embraces her again and offers another silent prayer of thanks to the gods for their bounty.

One of the maids returns with a musty-smelling blue velvet gown and helps Sansa into it. It fits her better than the frilly thing that Arya brought her the previous night, but the hem still ends indecently above her ankles. Sansa asks the maid to fetch a pair of riding boots to help mitigate the problem of the short skirts, and once dressed, heads directly down the hall toward Robb’s suite. There is no point to visiting Sandor, not if she would have to yell through the door just to speak to him, in front of the guards no less. Doing so would probably just make Sandor even grumpier and more hopeless.

After Sansa is announced by the guard at the door, Robb welcomes her into his spacious chamber with a tight embrace that makes up for the regal coldness with which he greeted her the day before. He is still dressed in leather and velvets from his morning ride. Grey Wind jumps up on Sansa and immediately imprints her gown with his dirty paws, but the happy yips and lolling tongue makes up for the stains. Sansa scratches the huge beast’s ears and tries again not to think of Lady.

Robb gives her a seat of honor by the hearth in his solar and apologizes for his queen’s absence, as she is being attended to by Riverrun’s maester to find out if she is growing a son, and Sansa offers to pray at the sept later in the day for an heir. Robb beams as if he hasn’t a worry in the world, which seems strange to Sansa, considering what the previous day was like, what the previous several years were like since she saw her brother as she departed Winterfell to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. It seems a lifetime ago, or just the memory of a dream that never really happened.

Once they settle in, Robb tells Sansa all about the scandalous way in which he he met and married Queen Jeyne, adoration inflecting his every word, and he intimates his hope that Sansa will get along with the young woman better than Arya does. He tells Sansa of his and their mother’s grief for Bran and Rickon; he describes his pain over Theon’s betrayal. As sad as the discussion is, it invigorates and cleanses Sansa; for years she had no one to share her agony, and now she is surrounded by all of the people who most care about her. It almost makes her forget that she still needs to ask favors of her brother, just as everyone who visits him probably does these days. 

Eventually Robb gets around to relating the difficulties of being King, and he speaks of his wish that Father were still here to guide him, to serve in his place. “But Arya and Mother must already have told you of how I have been fighting for our kingdom. You are the one who has had a real adventure.” He smiles at her then, and in the crease of his eyes Sansa can see a shade of their father. 

She blinks away her tears. “It wasn’t an adventure,” she corrects as she attempts to keep her voice level. “It was a desperate flight, and we nearly died a dozen times, Joffrey included.” She thinks of the infected stink coming from Joffrey’s mouth just a week ago, and her full stomach flops over uneasily.

Robb reaches down to pat Grey Wind’s flank. “You and Clegane did what none of my bannermen have been able to accomplish,” he admits. “Your actions _were_ desperate. And courageous,” he adds earnestly. “How did Clegane kidnap him, exactly?”

“We did it together,” Sansa replies, a bit put out that even her own brother seems to forget that she was there too. “It was chaos on the night of the battle. Servants and guards were running all about, stealing sacks of candlesticks and plates and chalices, tapestries rolled up and tucked under their arms. Some were lying on the floor in puddles of their own vomit, pouring fine bottles of wine down their gullets. No one was paying attention to me.” _No one except Sandor,_ she thought, _who was so drunk and ashamed of himself that I half-feared he would throw himself from the top of the Keep when he left my room and said he would kidnap the king for me._ She decides to leave that part out since she wishes to convince Robb of Sandor’s worthiness.

“Clegane has extensive knowledge of the Red Keep and its secret corridors. He’s not just a dumb brute, like everyone thinks he is,” Sansa continues, and she hopes she is not blushing as she brags about him. “But his singular strength helped him overcome Joffrey’s guards as they were taking him into the holdfast -- fleeing from the battle, no doubt,” she adds, repeating the words that Sandor had used when he had told her the story himself, with just as much disdain in her tone as had been in his. “While Clegane was kidnapping Joffrey, I took as much bread as I could from the kitchens and wrapped it all up in my skirts, and then I found some squire’s clothes in the stables. Clegane met me there with the pretender slung over his arm and we got out as fast as our horses could carry us.” 

Robb gazes at her raptly, with respect that she never remembers before, at least not directed toward her. Maybe he looked that way at Arya once or twice, when she jumped a pony over a low stone wall or when she stole a tart and skittered out of the reach of the grumpy baker.

“I _was_ desperate, though,” Sansa carries on. “Within an hour of our escape, I was certain that we would be caught and tortured and killed. But we couldn’t give up, for my greatest desire was to make it here to help you win your throne.” She shifts in her seat and straightens her back, her resolve strengthening under Robb’s admiration. “I couldn’t fight in battles like your knights, or bring you an army like your bannermen, but I could bring you the man who took our father’s head, who wished to take your kingdom from you. I didn’t want to just run away to arrive here and become another mouth for you to feed -- ” _another chip for you to bargain with,_ a small, defiant, irritatingly Arya-like inner voice adds, “-- I wanted to help you win the war, or die trying,” she finishes, her voice growing soft again. It sounds almost silly when she says it aloud.

“For which you have my appreciation, Sansa.”

“It was my duty and honor to serve my family,” she replies, echoing the Tully motto, “But for Clegane it came with uncertain rewards. Surely you will acknowledge his contribution to your victory.”

“Surely,” Robb says, his tone even, his eyes bright, and Sansa realizes belatedly that perhaps her brother has discerned something of her desires more directly than she had expected him to. “What does Clegane want?”

“He wishes to swear his loyalty to you, and to help you rid the Trident of the scourge that is his brother.” Sansa crosses her arms and leans back. “He does not deserve to be locked up and treated like a traitor.” Her words come out more petulantly than she intends, and she looks down at Grey Wind, who yawns and licks his chops.

Robb leans back in his seat, and with his face in shadow he looks older. “Dacey Mormont reported that she put Clegane up in chambers that are better than half the lords have, and she said that her men have been sending up enough food to feed half a garrison. Clegane is being treated extraordinarily well for the Lannister’s dog.” 

Sansa winces at Robb’s words. Out in the forest she had nearly forgotten Sandor’s other name, the one that Joffrey would spit out when he wanted to strike fear in the hearts of his subjects. “Of course,” Sansa pretends to agree, grinding her teeth. “I do not wish to tell you how to rule your kingdom, but from my perspective, he deserves your thanks in the form of titles and lands after you have won the war.” 

Robb presses his lips together into a thin line and looks down at his wolf again. The fire crackles and Sansa stares at her lap, waiting for him to speak. Finally he opens his mouth again. “I will think on what you’ve requested.” Grey Wind sits up and places his enormous head on Robb’s knee, and Robb strokes his wolf’s muzzle. “But Clegane is not the only one who brought Joffrey to me. What do you want as acknowledgement for your own accomplishment?”

 _Sons and daughters by Sandor,_ she thinks to herself, but she knows better than to say it aloud. _It is better to always get what you want than to always be right,_ Queen Cersei counseled once when she was deep in her cups after Joffrey had put an arrow through the throat of a popular, rich merchant who complained about the appalling behavior of the city’s gold cloaks. Sansa shivers as she pushes away the memory of the merchant’s shocked, pleading eyes. She brushes a few of the ragged hairs away from her face and decides to keep her request simple for now, at least until Sandor has had the opportunity to prove himself to Robb. “Forgive me for asking this, but -- oh, Robb, please don’t make me face the fear of another betrothal yet, not until we are all truly safe and back in the North.”

Robb looks into the fire. “I understand why you would ask for that,” he says, and Sansa suspects he understands that she has reasons beyond her lingering fear of a marriage to someone like Joffrey. “Unfortunately, now that you and Arya are back, I’m not so sure that they Freys will still accept Edmure alone as my replacement,” he mutters more to himself than to Sansa. “When Edmure and the Blackfish get back from the west in a few days, we’ll talk more about it. But these requests seem modest and acceptable. If only I could get my bannermen to be as clear-headed as my sister!” he exclaims with a smile.

Grey Wind yips in agreement, and Sansa returns the smile. Perhaps after her years of living amidst chaos, Sansa’s life will finally settle into calm contentment.

*_*_*_*_*

Joffrey’s cell is pitch black and he can see nothing, not even his own hand as he holds it up in front of his face. He gropes his way to the slit window, but there isn’t even a single torch lit in the yard below to help him get his bearings, so he crawls back to his pile of straw. He feels around the floor until he finds the flaying knife, and he rubs its smooth gold hilt with his thumb, scrapes his broken fingernails against the inset rubies. He pokes his finger with the point and brings the tiny cut up to his lips, tasting his own blood, the blood that gives him the right to rule the Seven Kingdoms.

He feels the vibration of the footsteps under his back before he hears them, and he stuffs the dagger under his armpit. He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep in case the visitors are just some Tully servants bringing more food. 

The door creaks open, and at Bolton’s soft “Your Grace,” Joffrey opens his eyes. In addition to the lord, there is a serving wench, and two of Bolton’s lightly armored guards, one carrying a candle and the other a bundle of cloth. 

Even in the shadows Joffrey can tell that Bolton is dressed for riding in the cold. A great sword is slung across the pale man’s back, and Joffrey feels self-consciously under-armed; there is a gaping hole at his side where his own weapon should be. He tucks the little flaying knife into his belt, though, and it is better than nothing. Actually it is better than anything else, because of the loyalty and promise of glory that it represents.

Bolton nods once, and the serving wench starts stripping off her dress as though she’s about to take a bath. Pale white lines run down her arms, scars like none Joffrey has ever seen. The hair under her armpits and between her legs is a golden yellow, not so different from his own, and Joffrey stares curiously. When she is entirely naked the girl thrusts her crumpled dress toward Joffrey and stares down at the floor.

Joffrey looks away from the girl and over to Bolton. “What’s this for?” he asks the lord, confused, but before the words are fully out of his mouth it dawns on him that Bolton means to steal him out dressed as a -- a common -- _a woman_. “Absolutely not. I refuse. I’m the king!” he hollers, and his voice bounces around the walls like a sorcerer’s spell.

Bolton blinks, and Joffrey imagines a shadow of impatience cross his savior’s face. One of the guards holds up a pair of breeches and a tunic. Bolton tilts his head toward the clothes. “You may don those garments beneath the dress, but you will wear the girl’s dress. It is the only way to smuggle you from this viper’s pit.”

The naked wench reaches for Joffrey’s prisoner’s tunic, but he slaps her hand away indignantly. “Don’t touch me, you stupid bitch,” he hisses. 

The girl withdraws her hand and glances at her lord, clearly frightened and unsure of how to proceed.

“Your Grace, you have _no choice_ ,” Bolton whispers, and the guard holding the candle rubs the butt of an axe tucked into his belt. 

Joffrey’s tongue finds its way to the empty space between his teeth. Something in Bolton’s tone sounds vaguely threatening, though surely the man wouldn’t dare to purposely intimidate his king. The brutish guard, however, smirks impertinently in a way that reminds Joffrey infuriatingly of his former sworn shield.

Joffrey gives the guard an icy glare and then looks back at the naked wench, who is still fidgeting nervously beside her lord with her hands clasped in front of the hair between her legs. The way she seems more afraid of her lord than of Joffrey, her rightful king, enrages him. He remembers how Mother, the spiteful weak woman that she is, always prohibited him from striking Sansa, and as his anger hemorrhages through his veins he raises his fist and punches the wench right in the mouth. 

The girl reels back and claps her hand to her face, but as she wipes the blood dripping down her chin with the back of her bare arm, she looks more confused than afraid. She doesn’t spit out any teeth either, which makes Joffrey feel strangely empty, disappointed. He shakes his hand in pain. The wench’s skull hurt his thin fingers more than he expected it to. 

Bolton sighs quietly, looking bored, which somehow makes Joffrey feel strangely awkward and embarrassed, like a child at a formal feast, like a fool in a sept. “Shall my servant dress you now?” Bolton asks, as though he hadn’t noticed Joffrey so much as flinch.

“Yes, she shall,” Joffrey agrees, feeling sheepish and annoyed, and the girl begins removing his tunic. Soon, he is fully dressed and the servant is lacing up the bodice over the men’s clothes. “Not too tight, wench,” he growls.

She ties her kerchief over Joffrey’s head, and he briefly supposes that he will be picking up a whole new herd of lice and fleas from this action. Such things don’t bother him so much anymore though, not after these long months in captivity.

The girl dons Joffrey’s prisoner’s clothes and makes to lay down in the straw.

“Wait,” Bolton commands, and the wench freezes. He nods his head to one of his guards, who pulls out a dagger and approaches the girl. The guard grabs the girl’s tangled yellow hair in his fist and Joffrey thinks that he means to cut her throat; Joffrey’s eyes widen in expectant fascination, but the guard just saws away her curls until her hair is about the same length as Joffrey’s. The guard tosses the hair into the straw, and the wench covers herself with the woolen blanket.

“After we leave this cell we’ll need to speak as little as possible, but should anyone come close to us, we’ll refer to you as Nan,” Bolton mutters, “after a girl I once knew who wasn’t what she pretended to be.”

Joffrey nods, and he isn’t quite sure if he is simply agreeing with Bolton, or if he is submitting to a command. He wishes dimly that the escape felt less like he was just trading hostage-takers than it does, though of course that isn’t the case at all. Bolton is his most loyal, most capable subject, and he has succeeded where all of Joffrey’s supposed supporters have failed.

Bolton exits first and Joffrey follows behind him. The taller guard locks the girl inside the cell, and they walk down the stairs with only the candle to light the way. Joffrey trips on the skirts a few times and curses the dress, curses Sansa, curses the Hound for making him suffer this newest indignity. Bolton shushes him, and the guard blows the candle out before they step into the yard.

Joffrey creeps outside into the moonless, cold cloudy night. It is his first step in months where no ropes bind him, where no one shoves him forward or backward or into the dirt. He wants to run and whoop and scream in celebration, even though it’s still just an illusion of true freedom. Until he is on the other side of the castle wall, the yard just a larger version of the same Stark prison in which he has been suffering for far too long.

The guards flank Joffrey on either side, and everyone follows the lord through the yard with the mud sucking softly at their boots. They reach a short half-door that even Joffrey’s dwarf uncle might have trouble fitting through without hitting his brow, and one of the guards puts his hand roughly on Joffrey’s head to make him duck into a black space that smells like salt and dried fish. The stocky soldier strikes something against the wall and relights his candle. Joffrey glances around as Bolton walks forward again; they pass through some kind of storage room with casks of preserved food and sheafs of small salted perch wrapped in thick paper. Joffrey grabs one of the packages and stuffs it down the front of his bodice, just in case. He is never going to starve again, not if he can help it.

They creep through another door on the other side of the room and sneak through low-ceilinged tunnels and hallways, deeper and colder within the walls of the castle. Their soft footsteps and short breaths are the only sounds that Joffrey hears. He never sees another person, and he smirks to himself at the pretender Robb’s obliviousness, at Bolton’s cleverness. Eventually the four of them begin climbing a narrow set of stairs, higher and higher, and when they finally come out into the open air again Joffrey finds himself inside a guard tower at the very top of the castle wall. At his feet, two men adorned with Tully sigils lie dead on the stone floor, their glassy eyes rolled back, the blood from their cut throats still wet and black against the red and blue fabric.

“Now what?” Joffrey mutters, the peevish words coming from his mouth before he can stop them. This is lunacy. He should be running across the drawbridge right now, or creeping out through some back door, or maybe even swimming across the river. How will he and his champions escape from way up here?

Bolton blinks, then tilts his head slightly toward a gap between the crenellations. The first rung of a siege ladder peeks above the stone.

Joffrey steps over the Tully men’s bodies and reluctantly peers over the side. His throat tightens as he tries to count the rungs that descend into the darkness below. After climbing all those stairs, his legs are trembling like a bowl of congealed gravy. Joffrey takes several steps backward as nausea spirals up from his stomach.

He bumps up against the tall guard, who reaches down and tucks Joffrey’s skirts up into his belt, and Joffrey swears he sees the curve of a smirk on the man’s face. “It’ll be easier to climb down without the dress in the way, Your -- Nan,” the soldier murmurs, and Joffrey fights the urge to threaten to push the insolent bastard over the side of the wall.

Bolton doesn’t even look at Joffrey again; he simply shoulders his king out of the way and hoists himself up with the grace of a dancer before disappearing over the side of the wall.

Joffrey can feel the unspoken challenge crackle through the air, and suddenly he feels a stab of resentment toward his future Hand. Behind him, he hears one of the soldiers chortle. He turns around to look at the Bolton’s men and can’t quite dull the edge of fear that slices through his guts as the shorter guard smiles and reveals a mouth nearly devoid of teeth.

“After you, Nan,” the man mumbles and snorts. 

Joffrey swallows. He needs to get away from these two as fast as he can, and the only way to do that is to descend the ladder. He gulps the cold night air and tries not to think about falling like the crippled little Stark brat up north who was killed by an Iron Islander, and he slings his leg over the side of the castle wall. He pushes up the stupid, undoubtedly louse-infested kerchief, which has slipped down his forehead and into his eyes. “Seven bloody hells,” he mutters, and his vision clouds with red rage as he realizes that it is exactly the kind of thing that the Hound would say in a situation like this. Joffrey yanks the cloth from his head and throws it as far as he can toward the forest. It flutters downward until it is lost in the shadows.

The Bolton guards snicker again, and the words _Bugger this_ rasp through Joffrey’s brain, but this time he is too scared to bother with cursing the Hound for ingraining into his mind such a rich variety of profanity. He turns around and lowers both feet onto a rung, fusses with his skirts as they catch against the unsanded wood, and attempts to concentrate on anything other than the extent to which the ladder is shaking as he takes a single step down.

He doesn’t fall.

Of course he doesn’t. He is the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and the gods have plans for him. They have provided Lord Bolton as his vessel to take back his throne, and no one -- not his weak and pathetic family, not the bloody traitor Starks, not this _rickety fucking ladder_ \-- is going to stop him from fulfilling his destiny. Joffrey snicks his tongue across the empty spot between his teeth again and takes another step down.

When he slides his hand down the side of the ladder, a thick splinter lodges itself deep in his palm, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. It’s only a splinter. It’s nothing compared to what he’s suffered. Tonight his stomach is full, and his allies are waiting for him below, and his blood is running so hot that he thinks he shall never be cold again. He takes another step down.

He knows that there must still be forty, maybe even fifty rungs left, but he isn’t as scared as before. The knuckles of the hand he used to punch the serving wench sting in the wet night air, but the pain invigorates him, reminds him of the suffering he will bring down on everyone who has ever wronged him. He takes another step down.

His legs begin to shake again, but he thinks of the Hound’s face beneath his boot, and he takes another step down. His tastes blood in his mouth from the side of his cheek, but he imagines Sansa’s body crushed into an unrecognizable pulp, and he takes another step down. His stomach churns with vertiginous anxiety, but he imagines himself rising up above the whole continent of Westeros, higher and brighter than any Targaryen’s extinct scaly dragon, and he takes another step down.

The wind picks up and tears at his skirts, and for a terrible moment Joffrey thinks he will lose his balance, but he flattens himself against the ladder and holds tight until the gust dies. He hears a horse whinny below, and a tiny snicker escapes out of the corner of his mouth. He’s not so very far away now.

A wolf howls from somewhere in the woods, not so very far away either, and his innards freeze into ice.

*_*_*_*_*

Sansa is asleep when Arya returns to their room. Arya curses and kicks the leg of a chair in frustration. She has been trying to get the chance to tell Sansa about Lord Bolton all day, if for no other reason than to get somebody besides Gendry to help spy on her pale quiet former lord, but her sister was never alone and she never got the chance. 

A few times today Arya nearly convinced herself that Gendry can just bugger off, that she needs to disregard his advice and just run to Robb and spill everything. But this morning, as she hunkered in the shadows of the castle wall next to a stack of lumber watching the guards at the entrance of Joffrey’s tower, Arya began to comprehend the unwitting wisdom in the blacksmith apprentice’s counsel. Perhaps Lord Bolton isn’t working alone; maybe some of the other bannermen are aiding him. If she tells Robb and Catelyn what she knows, they might believe her and keep quiet, or they might start investigating and place their trust in the wrong person. Arya has seen over and over again in the weeks since she has arrived in Riverrun that both her mother nor her brother have failed to learn that they should trust no one outside of the pack. 

In any case, Arya is pretty sure that Sansa isn’t stupid enough to go tell somebody about Lord Bolton other than maybe her brutish beloved Hound, who hardly counts since he is locked up and nobody would believe what he has to say. It’s a moot point, though, since Sansa is snoring under the covers, dreaming away with a weird little smile on her face.

Arya changes into her night shift and flops onto the bed beside her sister, feeling discouraged by the lack of progress in finding more proof that the Lord of Dreadfort is helping Joffrey. Maybe Gendry will have better luck than she did today as he watches the tower tonight. Maybe after she and Gendry foil Bolton’s plot, Robb will knight the apprentice. _Ser Gendry of the Street of Steel_. It is the stupidest knight’s title she’s ever heard, and she’s heard some pretty dumb ones. She dozes off with images of a grinning Gendry floating across her closed eyes, standing tall in a suit of shining scaled armor and refusing to forge the wolf’s head helm that he promised to make her.

Gendry spins away and Arya reels backwards into the cold foggy darkness, and when she hits the ground she is running through the night forest, with her grey brother loping beside her and her pack spreading out quietly behind her. The sky is as black as her brother’s eyes, and she can smell that icy rainfall will come soon. The scent of frosty mud wafts across her wet nose, and she sniffs at the musk of terrified rats scurrying hiding under the crushed dead leaves beneath her feet.

As she approaches the high stone walls where the pack of humans live, she gets a whiff of a hot sweating horse and a scared human that she remembers from when she went hunting up near the river the night before. She yips to her pack and they follow her on quiet padded feet; as she pricks her ears she pads closer to the men’s den without being detected by any of them, although the horse whinnies and the rider shushes it. Soon she is close enough to see the horse and rider beside the tall wall, and she picks up the scent of other humans clinging to the stones. One of them smells familiar, but not like the foamy, tired horse from last night -- this one is from long ago; he screeched a high-pitched yowl of pain when she bit into his arm and tasted his blood. The yelping boy now smells of straw and fish and fear. 

Arya bolts upright, her wolf dream jerking away from her like a fish snapping a line. “He’s gone!” she howls. “Sansa!” she yells in her sister’s face, then jumps out of bed and shimmies out of her night shift as if it were on fire.

Sansa sits up and shakes her head and is wide awake much more quickly than Arya expects her to be. “Who? Who’s gone?” the redhead cries as she slides out from beneath the covers, and Arya realizes as she hurriedly pulls a shirt over her head that her sister probably thinks she means the stupid stinking Hound.

“Joffrey, they stole him and we have to stop them,” she hisses as she grabs a dirty pair of breeches that she left under the bed and yanks them up over her hips in one quick motion. Robb will have to believe her now -- once he sees that Joffrey is gone, he will have no choice but to do so.

Sansa freezes and stares at Arya, confused disbelief crossing her face.

Arya glares at Sansa as she sticks her foot into her boot. “Well, what are you waiting for? Hurry up and throw on a dress or something, we have to catch them!”

Sansa tilts her head, remaining maddeningly still, and blinks. “Them? Arya, how do you --”

“I just _know_ ,” Arya groans, and throws open a wide cedar chest that has been pushed against the wall. She grabs a brown dress on the top of the pile and hurls it at Sansa. “Trust me. I’ll explain on our way to Robb’s chambers. Hurry!”

Sansa shakes out the dress and slips it gracefully over the top of her shift. “Perhaps we should send a maid with a message to Robb first, so you don’t surprise him with your suspicions --”

“No!” Arya protests as she buckles her sword belt around her hips. Why doesn’t Sansa understand? She of all people should know about the dangers of trusting people outside of the pack. “Anybody could be trying to betray Robb. We can’t take the risk of telling the wrong person.”

Sansa pauses from lacing up the riding boots she has borrowed from their mother. “What would you have us do?” she asks, her voice mercifully devoid of skepticism.

Arya straightens up and allows herself to stand still just long enough to formulate a plan. She closes her eyes and tries to concentrate on her memory of the wolf dream, to beat back her weak human fear. _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ Syrio had said, but swords had still cut him to pieces. Arya won’t let that happen to her family. She rubs her face with her hands and looks back at Sansa. “We’ll wake up Robb and Mother, and no one else. I’ll get Gendry -- we can definitely trust him -- and then we can scout out along the castle walls until we figure out exactly where Joffrey is escaping --”

Sansa pulls a thick dark cloak over her shoulders. “You’d confront Joffrey and an unknown number of his rescuers with only Robb to fight them?”

Arya narrows her eyes and grasps the hilt of Needle. Sansa is forgetting about Grey Wind, who is out hunting tonight and will surely join them. Another wolf is out there too, but Arya doesn’t dare to shape her mind around the wolf’s name, not yet, not until she sees her again with her own eyes. “I can fight. I’ve killed men,” she counters instead. Nevertheless, Sansa has a point. “There’s one other person we can trust,” Arya concedes, her mouth curling down in a sneer.

*_*_*_*_*

The fumbling and scuffling of the guards outside his door jerks Sandor awake. He grabs the empty ale horn from the table next to his bed and crouches on the floor, ready to attack. The cup is not much of a weapon, but if King Robb’s men have finally come to get rid of him in the dark of the night, Sandor is not going down without a fight.

The lock squeals and the door to his chamber screams open. Instead of the battle-axe wielding woman’s soldiers, though, Sandor sees King Robb and Sansa’s little dark sister stand next to one another, with swords in their belts and battle lust on their faces. A dark-haired young man of age with Joffrey but twice the blond bastard’s size hovers awkwardly in the hallway, his shoulders hunched, with a sword in each of his big hands. He is the greenest, most reluctant executioner that Sandor has ever seen.

“Your Grace,” Sandor murmurs in King Robb’s direction, as automatically as blinking. Sandor jerks his head slightly and meets Arya’s eyes. “Come to watch me die, little girl?” he growls, tightening his hand around the ale-horn and feeling oddly betrayed by the wolfbitch who seemed to want to help him and Sansa just last night.

“We’re not here to _kill_ you,” she spits at him, and then she literally spits on the floor as if she were a dirty old sellsword balking at an insulting contract. 

King Robb places his hand on his sister’s shoulder and steps forward, disregarding the girl’s contemptible lack of manners. Sandor can’t tell if the young king is afraid or excited as he stands there in a set of surprisingly plain chainmail, his curls all tousled about his face as if he had just been roused from sleep. “Princess Arya and Gendry here have alerted me to a betrayal amongst my bannermen, and they’ve convinced me to enlist you in our cause,” he says, glancing at his companions.

The boy called Gendry offers Sandor the larger of the two swords, and Sandor grabs it by the hilt. It is his own longsword that was confiscated by the Tully scouts, freshly oiled and sharpened. Sandor looks back at King Robb and sees fear reflected in the young king’s eyes. “Where’s Sansa?” Sandor hisses, forgetting in his anger that he should be using Sansa’s title here in front of her family. The king and the little sister glance at one another. Sandor takes a step forward and fights the urge to shake his fist at all the royalty in the room. “I kept her safe. If something happened to her in your castle --”

From the hallway Sandor hears a patter of light footsteps hurrying toward his room. A moment later the little bird appears in the doorway in a plain brown dress, struggling with the weight of Sandor’s mail shirt in her arms. She sets it down on the floor in a hailstorm of tiny clinks against the stone and rushes toward him with her arms outstretched, but she remembers herself just in time and drops her hands into her skirts. “Sandor, I’m fine, but --”

The dark little wolf groans, loud and impatient. “Gods! Joffrey escaped! Lord Bolton and maybe the whole rest of the castle helped him, and we can’t trust anybody! Queen Jeyne is checking on Joffrey’s cell now, but she won’t find anybody there, and Mother is running around to all the lords’ suites and pavillions to figure out who is missing and who betrayed us.” The little wolf grabs the chainmail shirt off the ground and shoves it against Sandor’s chest. “So hurry up and put your stupid armor on and help us get the little bastard back!”

*_*_*_*_*

[to be continued]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I admit there is a bit of silliness going on here in that Robb’s not sending out his men to go after the escapees. But I hopefully made it clear that Robb like, can’t trust ANY of his bannermen right now, and so long as he doesn’t know who is and and isn’t in on the plot to smuggle Joffrey back out, he can only take a couple trustworthy folks with him. Also, I’m 100% sure that I don’t feel like writing a big 50-person battle in the next chapter :D 
> 
> This chapter took me about 20 hours to write and edit. It was really hard, but really fun. I would love to know what you thought of it.


	11. River, Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as Sandor steps forward to join his new king, he feels a light pressure on the back of his arm. It is Sansa, cupping his chainmail-covered elbow in her small hand. On another night, her touch would weaken him, but tonight he aches only to feel Bolton’s skull crack under his fist, to squeeze Joffrey’s throat until it bruises beneath his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Might be in over my head with this one. It’s, uhhh, long and detailed. Also, bloody. All kinds of bloody -- violent, gory, explicit fighting and death scenes. I mean, it’s ASOIAF so what do you expect, but still. I definitely grossed my own darn self out in places. FYI this is probably the yuckiest chapter you will come across here. If you don’t want to read the icky parts (though please do! I worked on this for 2 months!), skip Arya’s 2nd POV, and read the non-explicit description of what happens in the notes at the bottom of this chapter.
> 
> If you need silly yet strangely accurate mood music for this:  
> Sandor: “Rollout” by Ludacris  
> Joffrey I: “You Ain’t Got Nuthin” and “A Milli” by Lil Wayne  
> Arya I: “In the End” by Green Day  
> Joffrey II: “Spit It Out” by Slipknot  
> Arya II: “The Hand that Feeds” by Nine Inch Nails and “Anything, Anything,” by Dramarama  
> Sansa: “Man Overboard” and “Wendy Clear” by Blink-182

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

As Sandor clumps out into the dark, cold yard with a sword belt slung about his hips and doubt enshrouding his mind, he thinks to himself that he can’t quite decide whether Sansa’s brother is the bravest man he’s ever met, or the stupidest. On the one hand, the king himself is leading the search party for Joffrey and Lord Bolton with just a few warriors at his side. On the other hand, he somehow allowed Lord Bolton to smuggle Joffrey out of a tower cell in his bannerman’s supposedly well-guarded castle.

But Sandor knows that it doesn’t really matter what he thinks about King Robb -- as usual, his only duty is to help win the battle for his current sovereign lord, or die trying.

A dozen paces beyond the doorway from which Sandor has emerged, in a corner formed by the the meeting of the stable wall and the outer castle barricade, the young king has rallied his trusted advisers, such as they are: the curly-haired doe-eyed queen, the little wolf-sister, the hulking blacksmith named Gendry, and a young man with a bushy mustache and the posture of a nervous, grass-green knight. There is an even younger man, still a boy truly -- King Robb’s squire, probably -- who holds up a torch that weakly illuminates the faces of the young group as they mutter their plans to one another. The king’s great grey direwolf stands alert nearby, its ears swiveling as its cousins out in the forest yowl. If any of the guards atop the castle walls find it remarkable that these particular youths are grouped together in the middle of the night, none of them are coming forward to ask what in the seven hells they are doing out here. The lack of nosey spies reporting back to their obstreperous overlords probably makes Riverrun a vastly more pleasant place to live than the Red Keep, but it is also an appalling security oversight that probably aided Joffrey’s escape.

Sandor looks down at his own muddy boots, then up at the black moonless sky. Judging by the smell of the air and the clap of thunder in the distance, the rain will start falling in less than an hour, which certainly won’t improve the conditions of the battleground, assuming that King Robb and his wolf can even find Joffrey and Lord Bolton and the gods only know how many men-at-arms. _We should move out now,_ Sandor thinks, and he wishes it were his place to say so. He does not relish the idea of bungling about in the woods as a downpour washes away the escapees’ trail.

Just as Sandor steps forward to join his new king, he feels a light pressure on the back of his arm. It is Sansa, cupping his chainmail-covered elbow in her small hand. On another night, her touch would weaken him, but tonight he aches only to feel Bolton’s skull crack under his fist, to squeeze Joffrey’s throat until it bruises beneath his fingers. 

What Sandor doesn’t want is to listen to tender distracting words. “What,” he growls out of the side of his mouth, wishing that his tone will make her quail the way it did those long years ago when she was so afraid of him that she couldn’t look at his face. He slides his gaze up along the castle walls, above the thatch roof of the stable, along anything that isn’t Sansa’s face. He hears her exhale, and he does not need to look at her to know that she is pursing her lips and flaring her nostrils in annoyance. 

Sansa slips her icy fingers down Sandor’s bare forearm. He flinches, recalling how she would allow him to enclose her small cold hands in his large warm ones when Joffrey was dozing off. But before Sandor can push back the memory and brush her hand aside, Sansa pokes something damp and scratchy into his palm, then pushes his fingers closed and steps away from him. 

Curious, Sandor uncurls his fingers. Laying across his palm, snagging against his cracked skin, is a ragged strip of grey lace. He blinks, feeling impatient and confused; then he finally looks down at Sansa. “I don’t --”

Sansa shifts her eyes away and mumbles something, and even in the near dark Sandor would swear that he can see her blushing. He misses her exact words, but he gets the idea of what she is trying to communicate as he notices that part of the lace trim at the collar of her borrowed brown dress has been torn away. 

He looks down at the scrap of fabric again dumbly. It’s her favor. For him. 

It’s a symbol of the great lie of chivalry, of the imaginary ties between gentle ladies and true knights. Did Sansa learn nothing from the beatings she endured from the white-cloaked Kingsguard, from fleeing a city set afire by the men sworn to protect it? Could she have forgotten how Sandor sliced the limbs off men in King’s Landing and in the forest, how their blood sprayed across her clothes and skin? After all that, if Sansa truly imagines that his creeping through the woods to slit Lord Bolton’s throat compares to entering the lists at a tourney, she’s as soft-headed as Joffrey. The thought makes Sandor want to throw the lace on the ground, to squish it into the mud with the heel of his boot.

Sandor thinks all these venomous thoughts and more, but before any of them cross his tongue, Sansa groans, “I already know what you think about -- about favors. But you --” she huffs and stops talking and glances in the direction of her little sister and her brother, whose hushed murmurs are rising into a jagged, angry exchange that Sandor can’t quite hear. Sansa sighs and looks down at her feet and adjusts her cloak around her shoulders. “You should have a reminder that you are loved.”

Sandor drops his eyes to the ground. _You’re still a stupid little bird, aren’t you? Singing all the songs they taught you,_ he had slurred to her once on a dark night like this. They never taught her to sing such songs to someone like _him,_ though. He thrusts the delicate ripped fabric into the waistband of his breeches, and he grunts, not trusting himself to speak.

Sansa opens her mouth to say something more, but at that moment the little sister stalks past the two of them, murder splashed across her face. The young queen pads along behind, trying to catch up. 

When Sandor looks back to the group of men, he is surprised to observe Gendry staring dolefully after the little sister like a dog who has been scolded, but the boy wisely stays put and clenches his big fist around the hilt of the sword that he clearly doesn’t know how to wield. At a word from King Robb, the squire with the torch scurries after the two women.

Sandor glances down at Sansa again. “Make sure your crazy sister doesn’t try to follow us,” he directs her gruffly, and he pats the small of her back as if he is pushing her toward her retreating sibling, though really he just wants to touch her once more before he leaves her again.

“Of course,” she replies, her tone as astringent as an unripe lemon, but she catches his arm and grazes her fingers against his skin and nods in understanding. 

Sandor jerks his chin down once and shoulders past Sansa. He strides toward the king, and the lace scratches against his hip with each step. He doesn’t look back at Sansa, but he hears her shuffle away toward the group who will stay safe within the walls of the castle, and he feels a little sizzle of relief in his breast.

“Come, men,” the king gestures, and he walks in the direction of the drawbridge. The young mustached knight wearing boiled leather and ringmail introduces himself to Sandor as Ser Raynald Westerling, one of the queen's brothers. Sandor is certain that he could cut the green boy down with a single blow, but hopefully the men who are with Joffrey won’t have such an opportunity.

The Westerling knight and Gendry and the direwolf fall in step behind the king; Sandor brings up the rear of their tiny force as they cross the yard. He imagines that somewhere in the shadows, Sansa and the other women are watching the four of them sauntering out, wondering whether any of their men will come back. Sandor breathes in the cold night air and wonders the same thing. But after that one final indulgent thought, he exhales his images of soft red hair and scraps of lace and warm comforting smiles. His next breath centers his mind on the fight ahead. 

The queen’s brother drifts over to the pair of guards in charge of the portcullis and says a few words; the guards scramble up to the pulleys, and moments later the thick grate creaks upward. The king ambles under the vaulted arch, and his direwolf trots beside him. 

Sandor furrows his brows in disbelief. Riverrun appeared inescapable when he and Sansa rode up with the Tully scouts a few days ago, but between Joffrey’s escape and King Robb’s informal exit, evidently it is rather easy to get out under certain circumstances. Of course, Sandor never would have thought that he and Sansa could flee from the Red Keep with Joffrey hogtied on the back of a horse, but the two of them managed that. Sandor shakes off his surprise and strides until he is nearly even with the king. “That seemed suspiciously easy to me, Your Grace,” he grumbles quietly.

King Robb glances up at Sandor and shrugs indifferently. “I’m the king. They have to do what I say.” 

Sandor blinks, bemused. He has encountered the jaded attitude in fair and vengeful rulers alike during his years of service.

The young king steps off the planks of the drawbridge and onto the muddy road. “Grey Wind, help us find the pretender bastard,” he whispers, and the direwolf lopes ahead, disappearing into the thicket. King Robb trails behind the animal, which he can’t possibly actually see in the darkness, and Sandor tries not to think about exactly what that might mean. 

The lean Westerling and the muscular Gendry creep past Sandor, the former slipping silently into a space between two bushes, the latter clumping along with the footfalls of a giant from beyond the Wall. Thunder growls long and low, not so very far away now, and Sandor hopes that the sounds cover up the stumbles of the blacksmith long enough for the group to overtake Joffrey. 

As a wolf cries somewhere in the forest, Sandor does his best to tamp down the doubt spreading through his mind.

*_*_*_*_*_*

 _Wolves, these bloody fucking wolves,_ Joffrey thinks to himself as the animals’ howls echo through the trees, off the outer castle wall far behind him, everywhere, making it impossible to tell where all the blasted yelping is coming from. With the moon blotted out by thick stormclouds and the only light emanating from a single pitiful lantern that one of the Bolton guards holds, the night is so dark that the predators could be less than six paces in front of him and he would not know it, not until sharp teeth were sinking into his throat. Joffrey shivers and clutches the flaying knife in his hand, vowing to himself that even before he throws Grandfather and Mother and Tommen in black cells for their treachery, even before he sends out Ser Gregor to comb the countryside for Northern sympathizers, he will offer a silver stag for every wolf pelt brought to the King’s Landing. He will hang the skins from the spikes of the Iron Throne, and when there is no space left, he will pile them up to the vaulted ceilings of the court. He will throw them on the pyre as he burns Sansa and Robb and the Hound into oblivion.

“--but we’re so close, just another half-league before we reach the boats, my lord,” the Frey man is stuttering down to Bolton as mud squelches beneath his mare’s hooves. The man hasn’t shut up since Joffrey stepped off the last rung of the ladder half an hour earlier; he won’t quit arguing with Bolton about how their party should cross the river and travel to the Twins.

“We shall not settle His Grace in a Frey boat until I receive the signal from my forces confirming that they are waiting to meet the rescue party across the river. You shall do as we agreed and ride your horse across the bridge upstream, and you shall make sure that my men are ready to meet the boats in the correct place on the riverbank.”

The Frey spits onto the ground and the horse whinnies. “Maybe we should all travel up to the bridge together. The wolves --”

Bolton’s shorter, toothless guard yanks his sword from its scabbard and he hisses, “Bugger the wolves. You heard Lord Bolton’s orders. If you don’t do as he says, you’ll wish a wolf was gnawing at your guts when m’lord is done with you.”

Bolton exhales heavily and the steam from his breath puffs around his face. “If we all rode horses, perhaps that would be a reasonable course of action. But His Grace is too weak to travel such a distance on foot, and my men might be discovered if they attempt to travel so far.”

The man curses, but the exact words are drowned out by another chorus of howling wolves. “My grandfather said I wasn’t to leave His Grace alone with the likes of you -- ”

Lightning flashes above, and for an instant Joffrey catches a glimpse of Bolton’s expression. The lord’s forehead is creased slightly and his wide mouth is pressed into a long flat line. As darkness envelops the man again, thunder crackles overhead. “Walder Frey will get his king and his reward, you needn’t concern yourself with that. But I cannot guarantee that you will return to him intact if you do not do as I say. Immediately.”

The Frey man hisses something unintelligible, but he finally does as Lord Bolton bids and spurs his horse forward, disappearing into the blackness. Soon Joffrey cannot separate the sound of the horse’s gait from the rustling of the tree branches above. Joffrey swallows dryly, surprised by how quickly the Frey changed his mind at Bolton’s issuance of a threat. Bolton’s natural power invigorated and inspired Joffrey up in his cell, but now, out here in the dark, he feels oddly at the mercy of his protector. _It’s only the wolves and the darkness,_ he tells himself. _A lion need not fear a wolf, and only stupid little children fear the dark._

Bolton sighs again and pulls the hood of his cloak over his head. “I’m aggrieved that you were unfortunate enough to witness that exchange, Your Grace,” he murmurs. “The Freys have nearly as much reason to despise the Starks as you and I do, but I do not have confidence that they would handle you with the care that I will.” He steps over a protruding root in front of him, treading so lightly that he seems to float across the forest floor.

Joffrey hops to the side of the path to avoid the same root, but brambles catch the skirts of the servant girl’s dress that he is still wearing, and he tumbles to the ground, straight into an icy mud puddle. The dirty water splashes into his face, and as he is spitting it out of his mouth he hears Bolton’s guards snicker behind him.

The taller guard hauls Joffrey to his feet by the back of his collar and pushes him forward. “Let’s move along, Your -- heh -- Your Grace.” The toothless guard chortles, and Joffrey wonders when he will have the opportunity to sling these men out of the trebuchets back home in King’s Landing.

“The two of you shall remain silent,” Bolton whispers as he draws his sword, his voice hardly distinguishable from the wind in the trees. The two guards falter at the command, and Joffrey is able to devote his attention to walking through the forest without tripping and falling.

The four of them traipse through the black woods as the air steadily grows colder. Several times Joffrey must reach out and grab Bolton’s shoulder just to make certain that he does not stumble again or lose the path, but Bolton seems to know where he is going. Joffrey’s knees begin to ache and his ears sting from the cold. Finally, after what seems like the whole night but is probably less than an hour, Joffrey smells moss and wet sand and he realizes that they must be getting close to the river and the much-discussed boats.

The group climbs up a little rise in the earth, and when they reach the top Joffrey peers around Bolton to see five or six long skinny vessels beached in the mud and over twenty men standing on the shore. A few men are lightly armored, but most are clad in leather and roughspun, clearly just there to row the boats and carry torches. In the distance one horse is tied to a tree, and quite a bit closer, the Frey rider who was supposed to go to the other side of the river is here as well, being sharply berated by a tall man wearing a half-helm.

The helmeted man cuffs the Frey rider against the side of the head with his gloved fist, knocking him to the ground. “Grandfather said not to leave them alone,” he curses as his victim rubs his ear.

Joffrey hunkers behind the trunk of a gnarled oak, uncertain as to whether his protector will proceed with the plan now that it’s clear that the Frey man has disobeyed orders, but before he has the opportunity to ask Bolton, the lord’s toothless guard strides down the embankment and draws his axe from his belt. “What in the seven bloody hells are _you’re_ doing here?” he barks at the Frey man, who cowers on the ground, his head swiveling between his own angry Frey commander and the Bolton guard.

Bolton curses softly at his own guard’s clear stupidity. He picks his way carefully down the hill as his tall guard follows behind him. Joffrey stays put for lack of an alternative plan. His head swims in confusion. If the Freys and the Boltons fight over him now --

He doesn’t have the chance to find out what a fight between his protectors would mean, because a dark blurry mass streaks across the shore and knocks the axe-wielding Bolton man onto his back. There is a growl and a gurgling cry, and then a crunch of bones. Lightning spiderwebs across the sky and Joffrey catches a flash of inhuman yellow eyes and thick ashen fur and a muzzle red with blood. In the forest somewhere a demon howls.

“It’s a wolf!” screams the Frey man in the mud, his last word drowned out by the thunder and cut off as a sword separates his head from his shoulders. The remaining Bolton guard shouts and drops his lantern and draws his sword, and as the fire falls to the ground Joffrey sees Robb slashing at the tall guard and the helmeted Frey at the same time. 

Joffrey flops himself to the earth. His heart a stone in his chest, and his chin grinds into the sandy mud. The first droplet of rain plops against the shell of his ear.

“Clegane! Ser Reynald! Over here!” Robb shrieks over the clanging of swords.

“Doing my best, Your Grace,” the Hound snarls from somewhere close to the treeline, and Joffrey hears the familiar sound of a man’s intestines spilling onto the ground. “Keep your fucking shield up, Gendry, they’re only hitting you with oars for fuck’s sake!” he shouts to some other man.

 _How many fighters has Robb brought with him?_ Joffrey wonders, but he shouldn’t care. They can all kill one another and it would make little difference to him. After his time as Sansa and the Hound’s captive, he knows better than to wait around for somebody to come save him. He crawls back down the path from which he came and inches along in the direction where he thinks he saw the horse tied up. The tree roots pull at his filthy skirts. Every time he hears another man being gutted on the other side of the hill, he bites his tongue. The rain picks up and another wolf howls, now quite nearby, and he shivers. _It doesn’t matter. Get to the horse,_ he admonishes himself.

“Your Grace,” he hears Lord Bolton’s familiar whisper over the rain splashing down. Beneath another flash of lightning, Joffrey sees that the lord is crouching before him, his back flattened against a tree trunk, his sword drawn and its edge dripping with blood. His colorless eyes flick down to Joffrey, and he jerks his head in a motion demanding that Joffrey follow him.

Joffrey’s eyes linger on the gleaming sword. He thinks of the flaying knife in his belt, and how useless it would be against any man with a real weapon. There is no choice. He gulps down the bile in his throat and crawls with his belly in the mud behind the man he has promised to raise up as Hand of the Seven Kingdoms.

*_*_*_*_*_*

“Joffrey wasn’t in his cell, just as Princess Arya said.” Queen Jeyne is huffing as she hurries along and explains things to Sansa and her little brother Rollam, who stupid idiotic Robb left to force Arya to stay inside the castle walls. 

Arya nearly kicked Robb in the shins like she would have back before he was a king when he ordered her to stay behind instead of coming to help fight. But really, she shouldn’t have been surprised by the directive. Robb was just doing what most men do, seeing what they expect to see instead of looking with his eyes. He only saw Arya as his short, weak little sister, not the ghost of Harrenhal who killed Lannister loyalists with just her words. Perhaps it is unfair to think that he should, though; Arya never did tell him about her time there.

The queen stops to catch her breath, and Arya is forced to walk a little bit more slowly in order to eavesdrop. “A servant girl was locked in the room, though. When she saw me, the look in her eyes --” Jeyne swallows audibly and shudders. “The Boltons do not treat their people well, do they?”

Sansa agrees quietly with the queen, and Arya rolls her eyes, not that the people tripping behind her can see her exasperation. Arya could have told them that the Boltons are horrifying butchers. Could have, should have. It is too late for regrets, but her eyes burn with rage as she thinks of how Robb wouldn’t even permit her to make up for her terrible mistake by helping bring Lord Bolton and Joffrey to justice. Arya bites down hard on her lower lip and stalks off in the direction of one of the archways that leads to a stairway up to the top of the walls. Perhaps she can shake the clucking chickens behind her. 

She can’t. They continue to follow, trying to catch up to her, and she hears Sansa breathlessly ask the queen what happened to the servant girl.

“I gave her a thick draught of dreamwine and took her to my mother’s chambers. My brothers seized and gagged the Bolton guard at the bottom of the staircase and threw him into Joffrey’s cell, and my own father is standing at the entryway now in the guard’s clothes. Members of my family are the only ones I think that Robb and I can trust right now.” She giggles for a moment before biting it back as she realizes its inappropriateness. “Besides you and Princess Arya, of course.”

Arya stops short as she reaches the archway, impressed with the queen in spite of herself. Perhaps she has not been seeing with her eyes, either; she never would have imagined that Queen Jeyne could think of or execute a plan like that.

Rollam clears his throat and shifts his torch to his free hand. “Jeyne, the king told me to take you and the princesses back to your chamber.” His voice comes out a high screech but dips into a lower register halfway through his sentence, and Arya bites back her own laughter in spite of her anger.

Before the queen can respond, a piercing wail emanates from the other side of the wall. The howl sends a whisper of hope whorling through Arya’s breast. 

Rollam nearly drops the torch though. Arya scoffs and ducks through the doorway. “It’s just Grey Wind, don’t you know that by _now_?” she calls over her shoulder as she skips up the steps two at a time. It’s a rude thing to say to Robb’s squire and the queen’s brother, but his annoying interference on Robb’s behalf makes her want to yank Needle out of its scabbard and challenge him to a duel. “Come on, don’t you want to try to see what’s going on?” She may not be allowed to leave the castle, but Robb didn’t forbid her to watch from up high. She doesn’t say that she is looking for more than just the battle -- though she very much wants to see that -- she wants to locate the other direwolf for whom her heart aches. 

“I do,” the queen admits, and at that Arya finally stops to wait for her three companions. Rollam exhales in obvious exasperation, but he skirts around in front of Queen Jeyne and holds up the torch so that she can better see the steps. Sansa follows the queen, holding her hand out as if the woman might take a tumble at any moment.

Arya bounds up the rest of the way. She doesn’t need Rollam’s torch to see where she is going; she counted the number of steps on this staircase the night after she arrived at Riverrun, and she has snuck up to the top of the walls ten times since. But when she reaches the little guard tower onto which the passage opens, she trips over an unexpected extra step that is thick but soft.

Rollam gasps behind her and sputters at the queen to stay back, and as Arya regains her balance and whips around again, she sees in the light of the flames that there are two dead guards lying across the doorway.

Miraculously, Sansa has the presence of mind to clap her hand over the queen’s mouth to keep her from screaming, and when it appears as though Jeyne won’t make any further noise, she releases her and steps away. She gives her apologies for her forwardness, and Arya has to stop herself from rolling her eyes again. 

Arya expects her sister to edge away from all the gore, but to her surprise, Sansa peers down at the guards and swipes her fingertip across the throat of one of the men. “They were killed some time ago. The blood is cold.” She holds her finger up to Jeyne, who grimaces, and Arya, whose eyes pop out in awe over her realization that her prissy sister has apparently grown into a person who touches dead bodies with her bare hands. 

Rollam has moved away from the entrance and is holding the light near the high crenelations. “Look!” he cries, pointing to the top of a ladder poking out above the wall. Arya approaches it with her sister and the queen, and together they all peer down into the darkness, almost as if they expect to see Joffrey and Lord Bolton gazing up at them from the forest floor.

The wind carries another sharp yowling, a different pitch this time.

“Grey Wind?” Jeyne questions, clutching Arya’s elbow.

“No,” Arya says, her voice quavering. She holds her breath as her her mind wraps around a whisper of grey-brown fur and a blaze of sunglow eyes. A knot of regret and pain and faith tightens in her throat as the first droplets of rain plop against the back of her neck. “It’s -- another.” 

Queen Jeyne’s eyes widen, and Arya reads in her expression that Robb has told her much and more about the Starks’ direwolves. 

Sansa tips her head in the direction of the corpses. “What should we do about them?”

Arya shakes her head, trying to think. Two raindrops multiply into five, then ten, then too many to count, and the wind whips her short hair around her face. It occurs to her that it is about to get very muddy and very difficult to see down on the ground below. She turns away from the ladder and her stomach twists as lightning crackles through the clouds. 

But in the shock of light she doesn’t see the pale faces of Sansa and Jeyne and Rollam; instead she spies Robb and a clearly injured Ser Reynald back to back, their swords drawn and lashing out at the half a dozen men who are slashing at them with everything from swords to boat paddles; Clegane, bleeding from a cut on the cheek, hurls a soldier from his back into the shallow water of the river, where three crumpled men lay dying in the mud. Two men with pikes advance on Gendry; he grabs the pole of one and kicks him in the stomach as Grey Wind tears into the arm of the other. Another dozen or so men hang back near some boats, looking dangerously ready to take the place of their fast falling brothers. She cannot see Joffrey and Lord Bolton, but she can smell their sweat over the sharp hot blood singeing her nostrils. 

Then the thunder claps above and Arya hears the clanging together of swords in the distance with her human ears. The direwolf howls again.

Arya jerks her head back violently, and when sees with her own eyes again her companions are staring back at her in shock. She swallows and her throat is as dry as a kiln. “They need horses,” Arya hears herself saying. “More weapons and torches as well.” She shoves past Sansa and wonders as she leaps over the dead men and clatters down the stairs whether she is sending herself to an early grave, or if she is saving everyone’s lives.

“Wait!” Sansa calls, and her voice bounces around the spiraling walls. “Sandor said that horses and torches would just give away their position --”

“It’s too late for that. They are already fighting, and we need to help them _now_.” Arya’s heel is on the lowest step when the collar of her jerkin is yanked from behind. She twists away and throws her elbow back. It connects with Rollam’s midsection, and he drops his torch onto the floor.

“Princess Arya!” he gurgles, but he manages to wrap his arms about her as she flails. “The king charged me with keeping you safe -- please, don’t do --”

“I don’t need your help. Bolton scum doesn’t scare me,” she lies, sticking the heel of her hand into Rollam’s chin and wriggling her shoulder out of his grasp. If her direwolf is truly out there, truly watching with her pack, maybe she will not die. Will she? _What do we say to the god of death?_ Syrio had asked before he shoved her into a narrow stairwell, trading his life for hers. _Not today,_ Arya had whispered.

“Rollam, release her,” Queen Jeyne commands. Her brother holds Arya for a beat before heaving her away from him. 

“I’ll go with you,” Jeyne says thickly, her eyes as wide as boiled eggs, her face pale as porcelain.

“No!” Arya and Sansa cry at the same time. As Arya is still recovering from her sister agreeing with her for once, Sansa says, “Take your father with you out to the pavilions on the other side of the river, where Robb’s bannermen are, and go help my mother with her task. There are hundreds of men there and it will take time for her to determine who’s still with us, and who has turned cloak.” She takes Rollam’s quivering hand between hers. “Please help us in the wilderness. Arya must know how to find Robb --” Sansa glances at Arya, and Arya nods her head, wondering why Sansa never mentioned that she must have had her own wolf dreams before Lady died. “Please. We need someone we can trust.”

Rollam stares at Sansa in bald disbelief, the apple in his throat bobbing, then looks to his sister for approval of what he clearly considers to be an insane plan. Jeyne nods, and without another word begins bustling across the half-flooded yard toward the tower that so recently imprisoned Joffrey. 

Sansa turns back to Arya. “To the stables, I presume?” Her voice wavers, but her eyes bore into Arya’s.

Arya thrusts her chin to the side. “First the forge. Then the stables.”

Arya knows better than to try to sneak into the armory, much as she would prefer to pick up fully functional weapons. At the empty forge, Rollam grabs a variety of swords awaiting sharpening and rolls them into a length of mildewed canvas for quick transport. Gendry would probably lecture them all about the proper treatment and care of weaponry if he saw them doing this, but Arya figures that he would prefer a couple rusted swords to getting beaten to death by a bunch of Bolton lackeys. Sansa picks up a small wooden club with a rounded steel head and tucks it into her belt, and Arya does her best not to laugh at the utter stupidity of their lives. 

The three of them edge along the castle wall, trying to stay out of the rain as much as out of the sight of the guards, and then creep in through the back door of the stables. A young stable boy snores, ensconced deep in the hay, but there are no other men inside.

Rollam knows his way around and pulls a saddle and tack from one wall, then efficiently starts to prepare one of Robb’s geldings for riding. Arya begins to follow his lead and hoists another saddle over her shoulder, looking for a suitable mount, but as she does so she notices Sansa heading to the far end of the stables, where the Hound’s massive stallion pokes its huge head out over its half-gate. 

The big black warhorse kicks the gate with a thunk, and he snorts, the whites of his eyes showing. Sansa stands with her shoulder blades pressed to the wall, and she glares back at the animal. Arya watches entranced as her sister steps forward and slowly, guardedly raises her hand toward the horse’s muzzle. When the horse sniffs her, she winces, and Arya is certain that the beast will bite Sansa’s fingers off, but instead he just sprays a great misty breath. Sansa pats his big cheek, and he turns a great black eye to her blue ones. “Stranger,” she whispers. “Help me save them.” Arya isn’t sure if Sansa is beseeching the horse or sending a prayer to the seven-sided god.

*_*_*_*_*

The damnable Frey horse would be less than a dozen paces across a sandspit, but the fastest way for Joffrey to get to it is straight through a battle between three boatmen and a big bull of a man from Robb’s group. All four of the warriors are swiping at each other with oars; their swords have probably been lost in the shallows of the river or down the mud during other scuffles tonight. Joffrey wishes that he would come across one of the discarded swords, but he is not about to run out into the middle of the fighting and reveal himself to Robb and the Hound just for a chance to better arm himself. “Seven hells,” Joffrey curses under his breath.

Bolton crouches beside Joffrey, his wet pale hair plastered against his skull and his black cloak hanging damp around his shoulders, giving him the appearance of a grumpy vulture. “We shall approach the horse from the other side,” he orders, and he stays low to the ground as he retraces his steps back into the brambles.

Joffrey has no choice but to follow. He scuttles along the edge of the treeline behind Bolton, beyond where he can see who is winning the fight and hoping that the three Freys and Robb’s man are too busy thwacking at one another to notice his presence when he takes the horse. Judging by the meaty thumps of oars on flesh, the occasional crack of ribs, and the frequent anguished moans coming from the clearing, Joffrey imagines that one side of the fight is going better than the other. Finally Joffrey and his future Hand make it around to the other side, as near as possible to the tree where the horse is tied. 

Joffrey peeks out over the top of a bush to observe the end of the brawl. Robb’s man is breathing hard, and both of his hands clench the staff of the now broken oar. The only Frey still standing is bleeding from his temple and swaying like a drunk. As Robb’s man raises what is left of the oar, the Frey’s legs collapse and he thumps onto the sand, obviously out cold.

Without giving Joffrey a warning, Bolton steps into the open and rushes toward the horse. But as Bolton slashes at the rope tethering it to the tree, the stupid animal flattens its ears and whinnies and rears up, then bolts further up the shoreline.

Robb’s man looks up and sees Bolton standing there with his sword drawn, and for a moment the two of them just stare at one another. Then Bolton turns and sprints back toward the trees. The man drops his shoulders and roars something incoherent, then races after the lord.

 _Bugger them all,_ Joffrey thinks, and dashes in the opposite direction, toward the horse, toward his freedom.

*_*_*_*_*

“What the fucking _fuck_!” the Hound bellows at Arya as she rides past him and the two sword-wielding men who have cornered him against a tree trunk. 

Arya whacks one of the shocked attackers with the burning end of her torch and the man clutches his face, squealing in agony. Then Rollam swings around and throws a sword toward the Hound, who catches it by the hilt and thrusts it into the burning man’s throat. The Hound turns toward his other tormentor, who thinks better of the potential engagement and makes a break for the abandoned boats. 

Arya spurs her horse forward to chase after the fleeing soldier, ignoring the Hound’s rambling curses directed at her. _Just wait ‘til you see who’s riding behind me,_ she thinks grimly, hoping that the Hound’s pleasure at seeing his great black warhorse will outshine his rage at finding Sansa riding the stallion out here amidst unspeakable danger. 

From the corner of her eye Arya observes Grey Wind guarding the unconscious form of Ser Reynald, growling at a hunched man who is slowly swinging a mace. Robb is standing knee-deep in the river, his left arm hanging limp at his side, his sword held high as a man with an oar advances on him. Arya starts cantering her horse in Robb’s direction when she hears Gendry’s screams upstream, against the edge of the woods.

She swivels the horse, and lightning flashes to give her a stark view of Gendry stumbling back into the forest, not far behind Lord Bolton’s billowing cloak. And further away, on the muddy, boggy beach, is a ragged, sopping wet Joffrey, riding a big bay horse fast up the riverbank, away from the fight.

 _No, no,_ Arya thinks, whipping her head back and forth between Joffrey and Lord Bolton. She isn’t supposed to have to make a choice between vengeance and justice. She screams like a wild animal into the night and digs her heels into the side of her mount. As she plunges ahead into the forest after Gendry, she thinks she hears the Hound hollering Sansa’s name over the pouring rain.

It doesn’t take her long to catch up to Lord Bolton. He stands in the middle of a clearing, gazing up at her placidly, the blade of his sword tucked up under Gendry’s jawline.

“Arya, get out of here!” Gendry howls. Bolton shoves him to his knees and knocks the hilt of the weapon against the younger man’s skull. Gendry groans and his head lolls back, and Bolton returns the sword to his throat. 

Arya pulls the horse up short and drops the torch to the forest floor, where it flares but stays lit. At least there is enough light to see what Bolton’s face will look like when she yanks Needle out and sticks him with the pointy end.

Lord Bolton tuts impatiently and grazes the blade against Gendry’s skin. He paints a thin clean line of red and Gendry hisses. The cut is not enough to kill, but an inch deeper and Gendry’s blood will gush like water from a burst weir. Arya freezes in the saddle. 

“Princess Arya,” Lord Bolton says her name like a lament. “Or should I say Nan?” His icicle gaze impales Arya, and she is tumbling back through the years, shrinking into the skin of the scrawny imposter girl holding the bowl of blood-sated leeches at Lord Bolton’s bedside, and she knows at that moment what she should have realized long ago, that this man also looks with his eyes. “You never told your brother about serving me. That was wise, little one. Or it would have been, had I not recognized you the day you trundled through the gates of Riverrun with those ridiculous brigands.”

Of course Lord Bolton would know her. Arya was the ghost of Harrenhal, once, but Lord Bolton is and always will be a demon, a monster far more frightening than any that Old Nan ever imagined.

“You should have stayed in Harrenhal as that little weasel-girl, should have forgotten that you ever belonged to the wolves. You were an entirely acceptable cupbearer, and you would have grown into a good little servant. Your blacksmith boy could have stayed with you, and you both could have lived.” Gendry winces and Lord Bolton digs his claw-like fingers into the younger man’s shoulder. “Yes, boy, I remember you as well. I haven’t remained the Lord of Dreadfort for so long by forgetting faces.”

“Why didn’t you say anything to Robb?” Arya asks, hoping to get Lord Bolton talking, to distract him as she grips Needle’s hilt, as she raises her feet slightly in preparation to spur her horse forward.

The pale man sighs heavily and his shoulders sag. He seems oddly disappointed in her, as if he were hoping for a more complex plot from her. Gendry shifts and Lord Bolton digs the edge of the blade further into the small cut.

Lord Bolton raises his eyes to the sky before returning his even gaze to Arya. “Everyone is so unsatisfying to me. My bastard son. Your earnest brother. That addlebrained Joffrey.” The rain starts falling so hard that water streams down Lord Bolton’s chin and spatters onto the top of Gendry’s head. “Even you, Arya. I kept waiting for you to employ the advantage you possessed over me, but eventually I realized that you wouldn’t. Your fear kept you in place.”

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ Syrio had said. He was right; Arya had let her fear keep her from taking action against Lord Bolton at Riverrun. _Not this time,_ she thinks, and slams her heels into her horse. It leaps forward and she withdraws Needle, pointing the slim steel right at Lord Bolton’s face.

Lord Bolton shoves Gendry to the side and holds his sword at a high angle, just as Arya expects, but then he drops the weapon down and scrapes the point against the horse’s chest and shoulder, tearing open the flesh. The horse screams and bucks, and Lord Bolton spins out of the way of its hooves as Arya struggles to pull her feet from the stirrups. As she jumps off the flailing, bleeding animal, Lord Bolton reaches up and grabs the front of Arya’s jerkin and pulls her down into a terrifying embrace. The horse stumbles away into the bushes.

Arya’s arms are pinned uselessly, stupidly to her sides, and she can smell Bolton’s sour breath on her wet face. She kicks at his thighs but he throws her to the ground and plants his boot hard on her chest. She wants to scream for Gendry, for someone else, but she finds that the air has been kicked from her lungs.

Bolton’s face flickers in the sputtering torchlight. “Your arrival at Riverrun ruined my first opportunity to take the North for myself. Then you caused Joffrey to escape from my grasp. You have destroyed my plans twice over.” He raises his sword up, its blade glowing in the light of the flames. “And now,” Bolton hisses, “You will meet the Stranger.”

 _What do we say to the god of death?_ Syrio had asked.

“Not today,” Arya gurgles, and from the shadows a great beast leaps onto Lord Bolton’s back.

Nymeria sinks her teeth into Lord Bolton’s pale throat and jerks her head back, separating most of his flesh from his spine. From the gaping hole in Lord Bolton’s neck his vertebrae gleam white and smooth amidst the pink quivering viscera. Blood spatters across Arya’s face as Nymeria whips her massive head around, the hunk of the man’s flesh dripping in her jaws. 

Arya scrambles backwards and wipes the gore from out of her eyes. She stares, transfixed, as a smaller brown wolf lopes over and tears away the leather and cloth covering Bolton’s soft belly and begins feasting on his entrails. Three other wolves emerge from the bushes and join their cousins to eat.

Arya glances over at Gendry, who is covered in mud and is sitting up on the other side of the clearing, obviously dazed and barely conscious. She looks back at her wolves and rises to her hands and knees, approaching them slowly. A brown-black cousin snaps at Arya, but Nymeria lashes her paw at the smaller member of the pack and opens an ugly laceration on its nose. The wounded wolf whimpers and slinks back into the shadows. 

Arya swallows as her vision blurs with a hot wetness that is not Lord Bolton’s blood. Through the tears she sees her former lord’s eyes staring upward, seeming still to gaze at her. He should look surprised or scared, given his last moments of life, but even in death he mostly just looks vaguely annoyed. Arya gulps the cold air into her lungs as the rain lets up. Another wolf nuzzles her out of the way and starts gnawing at the lord’s cheek.

“Arya,” Gendry calls to her, his voice wobbly. He tries to stand up fast and falls back to the ground, retches into the wet dirt. “Arya,” he repeats, more softly this time, and wipes the vomit from his lips with the back of his forearm. 

Arya blinks once, and she takes one last look at the body of her tormentor torn asunder. “Valar Morghulis,” she whispers, and she turns her back on Lord Bolton forever. She crawls over to Gendry and manages to hoist his arm partially over her shoulders. “Nymeria, come,” she calls, and her direwolf trots over to help, blood still dribbling from her muzzle. 

*_*_*_*_*

When Sansa catches sight of Joffrey retreating from the battle, she is struck, distantly, by the notion that there is nothing she would rather do less than chase after him, all alone, on the back of the half-wild stallion Stranger. But Sandor is occupied with beating back what’s left of Bolton’s forces; Rollam is fully concentrating on rescuing Robb from a couple men wielding broken sticks, and Arya has disappeared after Gendry into the forest. Even Grey Wind is busy guarding the gravely injured Ser Reynald from an armored guard. There is simply no one left but her to go after the bastard king.

She swallows her nausea and tosses her torch down onto the beach. She’ll need both hands free if -- when -- she catches up to Joffrey. 

Lightning strikes again, and Sansa gasps to see how far away Joffrey’s horse has taken him in mere moments. His matted gold curls have transformed into a sopping, spongy mass atop his head, and his wet cloak flies behind him like a banner. To his left the forest rises up. To his right the leaden river roils in the storm. When his form is plunged back into darkness, he and his horse are just one dark blob against grey and black.

“After them, Stranger,” she says to the stallion as she nudges its side with her heel, and immediately feels as stupid as Sandor used to say she was. But then he also speaks to the horse like it is a human. In any case, the stallion takes off along the strip of sandy mud so fast that Sansa has to grab the pommel of the saddle to remain astride.

They leave the shouts of the fight behind them, and though Sansa knows it cannot have been more than a minute or two, the time spools out like thread for a loom, and Sansa’s legs harden into bars of iron, and her jaw becomes a vise clamped shut, juddered by the movement of the horse beneath. The rain is letting up, but Sansa’s gown is still getting soaked from the river water sloshing up from Stranger’s churning hooves.

Without the light of the torch to blind her, Sansa is able to make out something dark in the far distance, laid out across the river. Lightning flashes once more and illuminates a long stone bridge.

Joffrey whips his head around, and for a second his eyes meet Sansa’s through the weakening drizzle. He screeches something at her, but the words are lost in the thunder. 

Sansa grinds her teeth together and leans down against Stranger’s sweaty neck, urging the stallion to run faster. Slowly, impossibly, pace by pace, they gain on Joffrey until he is so close that Sansa could touch the flank of his mount. 

With another burst of speed Stranger draws up even with Joffrey’s horse. The first bit of dawn sunlight must be trying to pierce through the blanket of clouds, because when Sansa looks over to Joffrey she can clearly view the incredulous sneer on his face. Joffrey raises a fist to strike her.

Acting on instinct, Sansa spurs Stranger forward one more time so that the beast pulls ahead of Joffrey’s horse, then yanks the stallion’s reins far to the right so that he directly blocks the bay mare’s path. The mare rears up and Sansa braces for the hooves to come down against her leg. She is certain that she will die now. She squeezes her eyes shut, waiting for the painful blow.

Instead she hears a shout and a splash. Joffrey’s horse, now riderless, turns away and runs back up the embankment and into the forest. Joffrey flounders in the shallows of the river, his cloak weighing him down. He tears the cloak from his shoulders and stands up, slopping through the knee-high water toward bridge.

Sansa’s lucky streak with Stranger runs out, or perhaps the horse is communicating his resentment at nearly being rammed; in any case, he flattens his ears and tosses his head violently. Sansa pulls back on his reins but knows that her tenuous control over the beast is slipping from her grasp. She risks a glance toward Joffrey, who has gotten surprisingly far in his flight along the riverbank in spite of his rather weird attire. But Sansa’s break in concentration proves to be her final mistake; Stranger rears up and her stomach drops as her bottom slips down the smooth wet saddle and past the animal’s backside. She lands with a great plop in the river.

Mercifully, Stranger follows the other horse up into the trees instead of trampling Sansa to death in the shallows. She picks herself up and takes a quick look around to make sure there aren’t any soldiers riding after her, and that Joffrey hasn’t turned round to attack her. Far, far behind her, back from where she came and many minutes away from being able to offer help or cause harm, there is a horse and rider coming toward her. She prays that it is Sandor but prepares herself to expect one of Bolton’s men. Much closer to her, Joffrey is still running toward the bridge, and finally Sansa can see that he is wearing, quite incomprehensibly, the ragged remains of a serving woman’s dress.

Sansa takes a breath and pulls the small wooden club out of her belt, the only weapon back at the forge that she trusted herself to use correctly, and she sends a desperate prayer to the Warrior, or perhaps the Mother, or maybe even the old gods, then sprints after Joffrey.

The bastard king is already on the path leading from the beach to the bridge by the time Sansa reaches him. She scrambles up behind him, her feet slipping in the mud, but miraculously she does not fall. Joffrey is so close, just a few paces away from her, and she cannot let him escape, not now. She does the only thing she can think of to stop him: she leaps and tackles him around the legs.

Sansa’s knee hits the packed earth as she brings Joffrey down, and some distant logical part of her brain that has not yet shut down completely reminds her that her whole leg will be purple and swollen later if she lives through this ordeal right now.

Joffrey screeches a curse and claws at Sansa’s face, first pushing her away, then grasping at a clump of hair and yanking hard. She cries out and releases his thighs, but remembers to whack his hand away from her scalp with the club. He screams as his knuckles crunch beneath the wood and metal, but he wriggles out from Sansa’s arms and kicks her hard against the collarbone. She shrieks and Joffrey nearly gets onto his feet, at least until she grabs his boot. The shoe comes off in her hand and Joffrey slips out of her grasp. 

He gets up and limps a few paces but Sansa throws the club at him. It doesn’t hit his back, where she was aiming, but it strikes him in the heel and trips him, which is almost as good tactically. As he stumbles and rolls over onto his back, she rises into a crouch and pounces on his prone body. But instead of pounding her knee into his stomach like she plans, she feels a bite, a piercing pain, and her leg buckles under her and suddenly she is down on the ground, clutching her thigh, and it must really be dawn because she can clearly see the dark red blood rapidly seeping through the fabric of her muddy skirts. And then above her, she hears a mad, gurgling cackle. She cracks open an eyelid through the miserable pain.

“You fucking Stark bitch,” Joffrey hisses, his eyes sparkling black as he stands over her, his fist clutching a small pointy dagger dripping with blood, her blood. “What a little idiot, thinking you could destroy _me_.” His grin is the cold crescent of the moon for one sickening moment. But then he stares past Sansa and his expression morphs from triumph to terror. He turns on his heel and starts running across the bridge, his gait lopsided on account of the missing boot.

Sansa tilts her head back and in the slate grey dawn she sees Sandor riding along the riverbank atop Rollam’s yellow gelding, less than a minute away. Further downstream she views another horse with two riders that can only be Robb and Arya. She sobs from the relief in her heart and the pain in her leg.

She looks over to Joffrey again. He has made it halfway across the long bridge, even though he is still limping badly. Beyond him, the tree trunks are moving. No -- dozens of horses with riders are moving, emerging from the bushes. One rider is waving a standard, and when he hoists it up out of the shadows, Sansa struggles to sit up and see the sigil. The breeze snaps the fabric flat against the pole. The flayed man splays out in crimson and carmine. 

Joffrey stops in the middle of the bridge and twists around again. “You see Sansa! I told you!” He crows, gesticulating toward the borrowed army at his back. He advances toward her, laughing madly. 

From behind her, Sandor is shouting something, but she can’t listen to what he says. She wants to scream at him to turn around, to save himself and Robb and Arya, to run before Joffrey and Bolton’s men kill them all. But Sandor wouldn’t heed such words, and she is too weak to yell it anyway. 

Sandor’s horse practically skids to a halt in the roadbed where Sansa is lying helplessly, and Sandor throws himself off the animal. “Seven fucking --” he starts, but abandons even his cursing as he looks into her eyes. One of the Bolton men blows a trumpet, and Joffrey squeals in ecstasy.

Sandor heaves her up in his strong arms as though she were a sack of feathers, but Sansa cries out in agony from the movement. “It’s no use,” she hisses through the buzzing pain, and as she looks into Sandor’s eyes she can see that he knows as well as she does that Bolton’s men will slaughter them both, and her sister and brother too, here on this riverbank at dawn. Sandor starts running back with her toward his horse anyway. Sansa closes her eyes and rests her temple against Sandor’s chest, hoping that she can think of this last good moment when the Bolton steel is slicing through her throat.

She hears a second trumpet followed by the clang of steel and the surprised shouts of men. Sandor falters and straightens up, and he turns around. Sansa opens her eyes, and over Sandor’s shoulder she views her sister and brother’s horse clopping up the path onto the road. Arya and Robb are staring at the opposite bank, their mouths gaping open like a pair of great fish. Through the sizzling pain, Sansa turns and cranes her neck to look at the other side of the river. Beyond the single wavering flayed man sigil, a dozen bright blue and red trout banners billow under the first rays of dawn cracking through the clouds. A mass of Tully forces, too many men to count, surround the comparatively few Bolton men-at-arms and efficiently put them to the sword. The flayed man flutters to the ground and the crimson turns black in the mud.

As the last of the Bolton soldiers’ cries die away, two men on blue-black stallions separate themselves from the innumerable Tully forces and start riding across the bridge.

Joffrey stands frozen in the middle, whipping his head back and forth between Sansa and the two riders who are rapidly advancing upon him. He lurches to the low stone parapet and tries to climb up onto it, clearly intending to leap into the river. But before he can do so, one of the riders yanks him back by his collar and slings him across the front of the saddle. The man rides up to where Sandor is standing with Sansa bleeding in his arms.

The bushy-bearded rider effortlessly ties the flailing, howling Joffrey’s hands behind his back and stuffs a gag into his mouth. When Joffrey keeps thrashing around, the man thumps him on the back of his head with a scalloped metal glove. “If you don’t stop squirming, you little bastard, I’ll bash your skull with this until you do.”

Joffrey flops over, limp and compliant.

“Looks like you nearly lost track of something important,” the man grunts.

At first Sansa thinks that the man is addressing her and Sandor, but then she hears Robb’s voice from over Sandor’s shoulder. “What fortuitous timing, Uncle Brynden, Uncle Edmure.” In spite of his casual words her brother is obviously exhausted and in pain.

“Yes, well, we weren’t planning on a dawn battle, but when we arrived outside of Riverrun a few hours ago your mother and the queen beseeched us to ride back with all our men and find you,” says Uncle Edmure. He points his chin at Sansa and then at Arya sitting behind Robb. “Looks like rather a lot of the ladies in your life are helping you win your battles these days, Your Grace.”

Sandor digs his fingers into Sansa’s back and under her legs, and Sansa moans piteously. “Right, thanks for saving all our lives,” he rasps with unforgivable rudeness. He sets her gently on the saddle of Rollam’s horse so that both of her legs hang over on one side and then mounts up behind her. “Sansa needs a maester immediately. Unless you have one traveling with your army, I’m taking her back to Riverrun and the rest of you can meet us there.”

Sansa blanches, mostly from pain but also partly from embarrassment. It wouldn’t kill him to refer to her by her proper title in front of her brother and uncles, of all people.

“Of course,” Robb agrees. He brings his horse up alongside Sansa. “Thank you for retrieving Joffrey. Again.” He leans over and presses a kiss to her brow, and Arya pats her shoulder. 

Sandor snorts loudly and Sansa can hear him grinding his teeth. She can almost read his thoughts. _Make your bloody brother dismiss us so we can get your fucking leg fixed up before you pass out the saddle._

But Robb has a strangely mischievous smile on his otherwise exhausted face. He tilts his head to the side and looks back and forth between Sansa and Sandor. “Well Sansa, after all that I suppose I’ll have to let you marry Clegane.”

Arya snickers. 

Sandor freezes.

Sansa faints.

*_*_*_*_*

[to be continued]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-explicit summary of what happens in Arya II: Lord Bolton swipes his sword against the side of Arya’s horse, injuring it. He and Arya have a verbal exchange. Nymeria leaps out and kills Lord Bolton. The wolves eat Lord Bolton.
> 
> Here’s something I learned writing this chapter: If you write your fight scene in a dark rainstorm, you will constantly have to discuss the acquisition of lanterns, have people hold torches, cause lightning strikes, stretch time to allow for dawn, and otherwise spend a bunch of time being annoyed figuring out where the stupid light source is coming from so all your characters can actually see one another. I think I eventually worked it out for a decent amount of drama, but GOODNESS GRACIOUS that took a lot of thinking and planning. Next time I write a fight scene it is going to take place at high noon.
> 
> The upcoming chapters are actually pretty close to being completed, and you can probably expect faster posting from here on out. Also, a fun and exciting surprise is coming soon!
> 
> Finally: THANK YOU for reading this far. Wringing this chapter out of my brain was a hard flippin’ endeavor. I would love to know what you think, good, bad, whatever.


	12. Sky, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The last chapter was the bloodiest of the story. That doesn’t mean we’re all completely done with the gore though . . . Warnings: 1) a reference to Joffrey-style infliction of pain on an animal at the very beginning; 2) one fairly short but explicit violent scene a little further down.
> 
> Also, if you haven't seen it yet, be sure to check out the new fic banner below, yay (Seen better on a tablet or computer screen)!

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

*_*_*_*_*

Why would you do such a thing, boy? _Father sneers with sludge in his voice. He towers over Joffrey and reeks of duck grease and sweat and labdanum, a sharp fragrance that one of Mother’s handmaidens wears. The sun overhead encircles Father’s dark hair in a great fiery crown; his great rough hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists._ What’s wrong with you?

Nothing, _Joffrey mumbles. Ashamed without knowing why, he drops the dying mouse to the stones of the courtyard. It squeals and wriggles its broken legs weakly. Joffrey kicks it hard. Blood sprays across the dusty cobbles as the body rolls under a bush._ It was just a rodent. It didn’t deserve to live, _he hisses, wishing that he could kick Father instead of the stupid dead animal, and then he remembers one of Mother’s lines that often raises the king’s ire._ Why do you care so much about a mouse when you don’t even care about your kingdom, you’re so busy eating and whoring -- __

 _Father wallops Joffrey across the face, leaving a stinging pink welt._ You’ll not speak to your father and your king with such words, brat, _Father growls, and he spits, a great brown globule that lands with a splat between Joffrey’s fine leather boots._ Have someone clean up this mess, and tell his mother that she’ll teach her son to mind his tongue, or she’ll feel my fist as well, _Father mutters disgustedly to the Hound, who is standing watch in the shadow of a camphor tree. The king lurches away toward the kitchens, probably to gorge himself on meat and mead until he can forget about the deeds of his golden son who reminds him so much of the wife he hates._

_Joffrey glares after his sire, vowing that he will never grow into a fat dirty drunken whore chaser like his father is, swearing to the gods that he will give his own sons a silver stag for every rodent they kill._

Joffrey jolts awake as a hinge screeches and a heavy slab door swings open, juddering as it hits the wall behind it. He slams the back of his skull against the damp stone and bites his tongue, opening his eyes to blackness. “Urgh,” he moans, shifting his half-numb legs to bring feeling back into them. His bare foot scrapes against the slimy dungeon floor, while the foot still wearing a boot scuffs against the pail of water that smells vaguely of fish guts. He moves to raise his hand to pat his scalp, but the chains jerk his arms down.

Joffrey keeps forgetting about the chains. It’s easy to do here in the dark, where the silence between drips of water hitting a puddle in the corner is filled by the sounds of broken mice squealing, of kicked dogs keening and starving beggars wailing, of Father moaning and writhing in his stinking deathbed. The dead ones are all so loud with complaints about their worthless small bygone lives. They must have forgotten that Joffrey was glad to watch them all die.

Footsteps clatter down the steps above Joffrey’s cell, and a thin beam of orange light -- the first he has seen since they threw him down here -- slips under the space between the door and the stone ground. When the door creaks open, Joffrey’s eyes smart from the firelight. He blinks to ease the pain but the torch burns and burns.

“Get him up,” murmurs a man with a voice as smooth as nightshade. 

Someone else shuffles over and clicks a key into the manacles about Joffrey’s wrists, and Joffrey’s chest fills to bursting with the warmth of hope. If they had wanted to kill him, they would have done so by now. Instead, the guards are clearly just retrieving him. His long suffering is finally at its end.

Joffrey manages to open his eyes fully as two men in studded black jerkins grab him around the waist and pull him to his feet. He sags against them as his knees buckle. After being chained to the wall for however long it’s been, Joffrey’s legs could no more hold his weight than Eddard Stark’s neck could hold his head. 

Joffrey snickers as he collapses back to the floor and the men around him curse.

“Not much reason to be smiling, I expect,” says the man with the poison on his tongue. 

Joffrey smirks, but he swallows the laughter. These men know little and less. Obviously Joffrey will leave this hell pit today, and that is reason to dance and sing to the seven heavens. Joffrey wonders whether Grandfather has sent Uncle Tyrion to collect him and take him back to King’s Landing, or if some western cousin is riding east now to make an exchange of hostages between Riverrun and Casterly Rock.

The two subordinates pull Joffrey up again, providing more support this time, and they tug him out of the cell onto a little landing. Now that his eyes have adjusted, Joffrey observes that the spiral staircase leading up to the yard has far more steps than he remembered when they dragged him down and locked him up. The men lug him upward and Joffrey does his best to hold back the bile sloshing around in his empty, shrunken stomach.

If Joffrey’s eyes stung when the guards shoved a torch into his cell, they blaze as if being punctured by red hot knives when he emerges outside into the cold sunny yard. The skies burn white overhead; the castle walls swipe across his view in a single black slab; the yard swirls with gut-churning color. 

The blurry lumps of brown and yellow and red slowly come into focus as groups of castlefolk and knights who Joffrey does not recognize. The men and women stare at him, much in the same way that they did when he was dragged before them in the great hall. But this time, instead of jeering and gasping, they press their lips together and shift their feet nervously. 

Joffrey whips his head this way and that, searching for the party of warriors on horseback who will surely accompany him to his destination, wishing that someone had granted him the opportunity to change out of his filthy rags and don something appropriate to his status before he emerged from the dungeon. Surely he deserves that much respect, after he nearly escaped, after he survived their attacks, after submitting to this hostage exchange. There is no escort in the yard that he can see, though. 

The crowd of people presses back, and in front of Joffrey a wide pathway forms. At the end of it stands King Robb, his great grey direwolf at his side, his subjects surrounding him, his spiked crown atop his head, his shoulders draped in black fur and white ermine trim. He grips the hilt of his sword in his right hand. 

A rough wooden block rests at the king’s feet. 

Joffrey freezes though his heart gallops in his chest; he cannot breathe, can hear no sound but the river beyond the castle walls, the waterway into which he should have flung himself the moment that those Tully trout banners emerged from the forest.

The guards shove Joffrey forward and he tumbles to the ground. He claws at the dirt, tries vainly to grab a handhold, but the men hoist him up by his armpits and haul him toward the king. 

The river froths and foams, louder and louder. Joffrey hears every wave that laps against the muddy shore, every eddy that swirls around every rock, every splash of every leaping fish. Beneath the water a high-pitched shriek bubbles up, bounces off the stones of the castle, streaks across the white sky.

King Robb opens his mouth and speaks with a voice of molten lead. “Joffrey, bastard born of incest, usurper of the crown to the rightful heir of the southron kingdom Stannis Baratheon, for the crime of killing the Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark and all his sworn men, for waging an unjustified war against the sovereign northern lands, for conspiring with the traitor Roose Bolton to destroy House Stark, and for repeatedly attempting to murder Princess Sansa and her betrothed Sandor Clegane, I, Robb of House Stark, King in the North and of the Trident, hereby sentence you to death.”

Warm wetness slides down the back of Joffrey’s thighs, and it is followed closely by the smell of offal. The shrill wail grows and rings out even above the roiling of the river. 

King Robb bellows above the shrieks, his voice now as hot as red forged steel. “Though it is more than you deserve, your bones shall be returned to Casterly Rock where your ancestors lie, as part of the negotiation that the North shall be ruled henceforth by northerners.”

The waves in Joffrey’s ears erupt into turbulent rapids. They churn in time with the thumping of his heart. 

King Robb extracts his sword from its sheath. “I shall carry out the sentence myself.” 

The guards kick Joffrey’s legs out from under him -- not that they were holding him up of their own accord anyway -- and suddenly he is kneeling with his cheek smashed against the block, with men holding each of his arms back . A splinter lodges itself in his chin as he struggles, and distantly Joffrey realizes that the screeching might be his own wailing, but he can no longer hear even that sound over the waterfall in his ears. 

“Do you have any last words?” asks King Robb, his voice smoldering through the cacophony as he lifts his gleaming blade up in the air. From down here he looks a hundred feet tall, a giant from beyond The Wall. 

Joffrey squeezes his eyes shut. The waterfall recedes into a stream, then a low trickle as the image of his cold conniving mother’s face fills his mind. He recalls how the men he once tortured called out for their mothers, or maybe they were calling out for the Mother to save them. But neither their mothers nor their gods spared their lives, just as Joffrey’s won’t now. The trickle of water chokes away into silence, and all Joffrey can hear is the pounding of his heart.

The blessed silence affords him a beam of clarity. There is one thing that could save him. He opens his eyes. “Mercy,” he whispers, or perhaps he screams. “Your Grace, have mercy!” 

King Robb spits in the dirt and adjusts his grip on the sword. Joffrey struggles to stand, but more strong northern soldiers grab him by the elbows and legs and they force him back down to the block. He can no longer even look up at his executioner.

Joffrey can only see out across the yard. Hardly ten paces before him, Sansa Stark leans on a crutch, with her mother and sister flanking her, and Sandor Clegane’s bulk rising up close behind her. She stares Joffrey straight in the eyes. Her face is as hard and cold as porcelain. 

Clegane places his hand on her shoulder, and she reaches up and grasps his fingers in her own. 

“Please,” Joffrey mouths to the two of them. 

A light flashes. The blade comes down.

*_*_*_*

There are no white birds burning against the sky, no rasp of Yoren’s knife at the back of Arya’s scalp. There is only a scream, a burble of liquid, a head falling into the dirt with a plop.

*_*_*_*

Blood pulses from the stump of Joffrey’s neck, soaking his matted golden curls and blank dirty face and dead green eyes. A puddle forms beneath the woodblock, creates a murky moat around the severed head.

 _How long must I look at it?_ Sansa had asked Joffrey a lifetime ago. _As long as it pleases me,_ he had taunted. It had pleased him to have her look at her father for quite a long time. Sansa glares at Joffrey’s head, searing the image into her memory, overtop that last one of her father. 

One of Umber’s men rushes forward to fetch Joffrey’s head from the mud. The soldier grips it by the hair and holds it up to the cheers of the soldiers in the yard. Flecks of gore spray across the sigil on the man’s breast. 

Sansa’s good leg suddenly seems incapable of holding her up, and it is only because Sandor catches her around the waist and props her up that she doesn’t fall straight to the earth. No one seems to notice the impropriety, though; they are all still staring at the head.

Her stomach seems to be filled with cold oil. For years in King’s Landing, she had fantasized about the day that Robb would bring her Joffrey’s head. She had imagined that her cheeks would hurt from smiling so much. But now that the moment is here, she just feels like retching.

“I thought this would make me feel happier,” Arya chokes out, voicing Sansa’s thoughts.

Mother worries a kerchief out from her dark velvet sleeve and dabs carefully beneath her nostrils. “Why would you think that? Joffrey’s head won’t bring your father back to us.” She sniffles and lowers her eyes to the hem of her skirts and takes Arya’s hand in her own. “Joffrey’s death was necessary to ensure that he would never again hurt our family. But even this justice cannot bring back the happiness we once had.”

Sandor’s fingers tremble at the small of Sansa’s back; his hot rapid breaths puff on her exposed neck. She attempts to reach behind to pat his wrist, but he bats her hand away, and then there is a whoosh of cold air against her skin. She turns around to see Sandor stalking away from the crowd, his strides just short of a run. His dark cloak billows behind him as he ducks into the stables.

Sansa takes one last look at the crowd. A pair of Silent Sisters, summoned here especially for the occasion, are already wrapping the body and head in burlap while Grey Wind and Nymeria sniff around the wood block. Robb is surrounded by his sworn men, who are clapping him on the back and roaring their approval. He catches Sansa’ eye and gives her a beseeching look. She can almost hear his thoughts. _Do you think Father would be proud of us?_ he seems to ask. Later she will tell him she is certain that Father’s bones are already resting more peacefully in the crypt beneath Winterfell, but at this moment she has another to whom she must attend.

She adjusts the crutch under her arm. The Riverrun barrelmaker fashioned it to match her height and the tanner wrapped the top and the handle with soft leather to make it more comfortable to use, but even so she struggles to get around with it. She pivots painfully and slowly starts limping along the path Sandor took. Arya asks where she thinks she is going, but Sansa waves her off. Her mother says nothing; perhaps she understands what Sansa must do better than anyone else.

Sansa picks her way around the mud at the entrance to the stables. Inside, the shouts from the men in the yard are muted. A few horses whuff and stomp, but none of the castlefolk are here; even the stable boys went out to watch the beheading. It smells like manure and hay and frost.

Sandor leans against Stranger’s half-gate, patting the stallion’s muzzle. Uncle Edmure sent six of his men to retrieve the warhorse from the woods while Sandor brought Sansa back to Riverrun to receive care for her wounded leg. In the days since then, Sansa has felt that Sandor has been unnecessarily attentive to the horse considering that it dumped her on the riverbank and left her to fight Joffrey all alone.

She hobbles along the side of the wooden wall until she stands before Sandor, then reaches out to him and brushes her free hand along his broad shoulder. 

Sandor glances down at her briefly. He rivets back onto his horse, returning his face to the shadows. He doesn’t ignore Sansa exactly; he just seems unready to speak.

Stranger snorts and tosses his great head behind the half gate, then backs away into the rear of the stable, as if he is ashamed to face Sansa again. _You_ should _be embarrassed, leaving me like that,_ Sansa thinks scornfully, before remembering that she wouldn’t have been around to help recapture Joffrey if Stranger hadn’t saved her previously in the forest.

As she tries to push back these uncharitable thoughts about her beloved’s horse, Sandor steps away, releasing a great sigh as he sinks down onto a long bench against the wall. Sansa follows him, and he pulls her down onto his knee as he has done fifty times before. This time, though, she leans her crutch against the bench and winces as her bound leg sticks out awkwardly. Sandor presses his face into her shoulder, and his breath is hot and damp against the thick fabric of her dress.

Sansa remembers feeling the clean hot wetness that had not been the sticky blood of other men on Sandor’s cheek the night they had escaped King’s Landing. He had frightened her so badly that she had nearly refused to leave with him, but his tears had revealed to her that he was even more afraid than she was, that he was desperate enough to help her. She wonders whether he feels like crying now, but she does not dare to move. Instead she strokes the top of his head awkwardly and presses her chin to his scalp.

“Are you -- did Joffrey’s death distress you?” Sansa asks, her heart pounding hard against her ribs. _What if he regrets it all?_ Could she bear his pity for the monster who so tormented her? 

“ _Joffrey?_ Have you gone mad?” Sandor counters, though his words are muffled by the fabric of her dress. The tightness in Sansa’s chest loosens, as though her maid let out the laces of her girdle. “I’ll piss on the bastard’s grave.” 

Sansa furrows her brows and looks down at the top of Sandor’s head. “Then why --”

“Your lady mother. She is wise.” He sits back and leans his head against the stable wall, but he still cannot seem to look Sansa in the eye.

Sansa gazes down at Sandor’s forearm draped across her lap. “Yes -- ” she agrees cautiously, thinking back over her mother’s words.

“Killing Gregor won’t bring my sister or father or my face back, any more than executing Joffrey brought your father back. It would be an act of kinslaying dressed up as justice,” Sandor says, his voice a low rumble of thunder. “Vengeance will bring me no joy.”

Sansa heaves a sigh like tossing a heavy bucket of water onto a dusty floor. Even that makes her leg hurt, but she ignores it as best she can. “You’re right. Vengeance cannot bring joy, but love will.” She kisses the top of Sandor’s forehead, right on the part where the hair stops and the burns begin. “And you have mine.” 

Sandor makes a funny kind of snort not unlike Stranger’s and he squeezes her waist, but he does not speak. 

Sansa presses her dry lips to his, and while he does not return the kiss, he does not push her away either. “You have me,” she says against his mouth. “You do not need revenge.”

Sandor turns his head to the side and shifts her closer to him, causing her to grind her teeth as a bolt of pain jitters up and down her leg. He brushes his hand down her side and digs his fingers into her hip. “The hope of revenge has fueled me for many years.”

In spite of herself, anger flares in the pit of Sansa’s stomach. She has no wish to argue with Sandor, but she refuses to let him deny his own deserved happiness. “Is revenge what you were thinking of when you force-fed me insects to keep me from starving? Or when you froze as you kept watch in the dark of night?” She places her hand against his cheek, just the way she did that night when the wildfire glowed green in the sky, and she turns his head so that he must look at her. “Is revenge what you were thinking of when you chased after me as I pursued Joffrey?”

Sandor gazes back at her evenly. His voice is level when he admits, “I was thinking of you.”

Sansa closes her eyes and kisses him again, and this time he kisses her back, long and hard. A great lump pulls up in her throat and she gasps as the tears overflow, streaming down her face. She breaks away and presses her face to Sandor’s, and she feels a wetness there as well. “Let Edmure’s men bring Ser Gregor to justice,” she whispers into Sandor’s mangled ear. “Robb will need your help rebuilding the North.”

*_*_*_*_*_*

The cruel boy he served for so many years is gone to meet the Stranger, and Sandor is a turncloak no longer. He is a free man, free to do exactly as he wishes. He presses his lips to Sansa’s.

*_*_*_*_*_*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First, a thank-you to [Starbird1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbird1/pseuds/starbird1) for inspiring Sandor’s change of heart regarding revenge in her beautiful ongoing story, Seven More. I feel like this is Sandor’s character arc in canon, and I wanted him to come to a similar conclusion here.
> 
> Second, wanted to make a quick clarification re: Joff wearing a dress in previous chapters. Of course I do not think there is anything wrong with one gender wearing the clothes of another gender for whatever reason (Arya is an example!) but since Joffrey has a rigid inner definition of masculinity and great scorn for femininity, he felt shamed by something he should have been grateful for (a good disguise that he should have attempted to make better use of).
> 
> Finally, a super-long but potentially important note: I couldn’t decide how to write Joff’s death scene. Part of me wanted to make Joffrey indignant, vengeful, spitting mad and demanding his throne to the bitter end. Part of me wanted to write him as having experienced growth, finally accepting quietly that there would be no escape for him this time. But I ended up choosing this approach, which didn’t excuse his actions but hopefully reminded the reader that he didn’t become a horrifying person in a vacuum: he was a product of his upbringing by people who disregarded his lack of empathy and permitted his worst traits to flourish, and as king he possessed power that allowed for even greater exaggeration of his violent tendencies. 
> 
> It’s a weird thing, killing off a character, even a despicable one like Joffrey. Joffrey was horrible in canon; he was awful in the fic I wrote here, and yet...he did not succeed in killing the heroes. They killed him. To serve justice, certainly, but they performed the action that Joffrey had wanted to perform all along. According to Westerosi justice standards the only other option was to let him rot in a jail cell -- perhaps a fate worse than death -- and even then that would have been at the peril of appearing weak and losing bannermen. And Joffrey gave no indication either in canon or in this fic that he could ever redeem himself. And yet I still felt weird about killing him, perhaps because the heroes became a little bit more like Joffrey by doing to him what he would have done to them, even though that was pretty much the only choice available to them. 
> 
> I tried to temper my weird feelings about offing Joff with 1) revealing that Starks + Sandor didn’t enjoy Joffrey’s death at all whereas Joffrey would have reveled in theirs, and 2) Catelyn’s message: In the world of Westeros, Joffrey’s death served justice and precluded his ability to hurt anyone else in the future, but it didn’t provide the closure that the heroes expected. The lifelong pain that they experienced from the deaths of their family members cannot be unmade, it can only be endured. At least with that stark realization also comes a bit of raw internal peace; thus, Sandor’s decision not to pursue his brother for personal vengeance.
> 
> And with that kind of hopeless message, let me assure you that the next chapter is pretty much all fluff and adorableness. Also, extremely long. Hooray!


	13. Sky, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you have it?” Arya checks once again. Gendry’s not one to forget things, but today is an important day and Arya is not about to burst into the chambers where Sansa is getting ready without bringing the gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I split this up into two chapters because it’s Valentine’s Day and I wanted to post this much, at least :D :D :D Next half coming soon, I hope!

banner by [cosmic-art](http://cosmic-art.tumblr.com/)

*_*_*_*_*_*

“So you have it?” Arya checks once again. Gendry’s not one to forget things, but today is an important day and Arya is not about to burst into the chambers where Sansa is getting ready without bringing the gift.

Gendry groans, but he gives her a crooked smile as he holds up a bundle of blue silk. “Is milady nervous?”

Arya quells the urge to shove him to the floor of the forge. She could still do it, even if Gendry is a good two heads taller than her now, but he’s all dressed up in the nice new black leather jerkin that Robb had made for him, and he would just get dusty. And that would probably just make Sansa mad. “Not nervous. Just uncomfortable. Look.” She pulls back her thick cloak to show Gendry the gown into which her maids stuffed her before dawn.

Gendry’s smirk disappears as if it were scrubbed from his face. “Where’d you get that?” he stutters, his ears going all red. 

“My mother found it in some shut up old room someplace. It was my Aunt Lysa’s when she was a young girl,” Arya explains, feeling unaccountably irritated at the blacksmith’s tone and expression, though she should probably be trying to muster feelings of contrition for showing up at the forge an hour earlier than she had told him to expect her. 

“It’s, uh, green,” he declares, as though Arya can’t see that for herself. The ruddiness of his cheeks makes him look like he’s been drinking. There is no way he has been doing that, though. It’s far too early in the morning, and besides, the kitchen staff are closely guarding the wine and ale for the festivities tonight. Last night Arya watched a livid scullery wench thwack a Mormont man-at-arms with her broom as he tried to tap a cask of Dornish Sour. 

“The sleeves are too tight,” Arya complains, scratching at her arms. The old gown -- more grey than green, really -- has been airing out for days, but it still smells like the inside of the cedar chest in which it was stored for many winters. The fabric, though fine, is mercifully devoid of ornamentation, but it binds Arya up in annoying and inconvenient ways. 

Gendry doesn’t seem to have anything more to say about Arya’s gown; perhaps he has learned to keep his stupid thoughts about her clothes to himself after all this time, or maybe he just wonders why she isn’t grousing more about her attire. Usually when her mother makes her don a dress, Arya becomes a non-stop fount of grievances to anyone who will listen.

“Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it looks,” she reassures him as she pulls the skirts up past her knees to reveal the boy’s breeches and riding boots she snuck on after the maids left, as well as the golden hilt of the small flaying knife poking up next to her calf. “Just in case,” she says gravely as she pats Bolton’s dagger. She had picked it up off the ground after Joffrey had stabbed Sansa with it, and nobody has tried to confiscate it from her since then.

Gendry’s eyes pop open and his chin drops to his chest. “Just in case _what?_ ” he sputters, his pupils darting from her toes to her knees and back down to the dirt floor.

Arya drops her skirts and rolls her eyes. After all that has happened these past months, Gendry of all people should recognize the necessity of perpetual preparedness for fights and escapes. “Valar Morghulis,” she sighs under her breath, feeling no need to explain herself further, hoping that she is still pronouncing the words right. She fingers the thin leather thong around her neck. Attached to the strap and tucked deep into her bodice hangs the pouch where she now hides the worn Braavosi coin. Whenever she touches the coin she glimpses the strands of Jaqen’s red and white hair, and she wonders where the faceless man went, wonders if she will ever meet him again.

Gendry shoulders past Arya and out of his forge, muttering something unflattering about mad highborns, and he stomps across the yard with the half-frozen mud crunching and sloshing beneath his feet. His breath puffs out in front of him in a cloud. 

Arya hurries after him, making a cursory effort to avoid the biggest puddles that have begun to thaw in the weak sunlight. She smirks in odd satisfaction over knocking stout stalwart Gendry off-balance.

Together they reach the wing of the castle where Catelyn’s chambers are located, and a guard ushers them past a thick oak door with intricate hammered hinges. The dark corridor seems even colder to Arya than the yard did, and it is stuffy from the smoke escaping from the hearths in the rooms of all the important guests.

When they arrive at Catelyn’s rooms, the newly knighted Ser Rollam announces them, and Arya hears Sansa squeal in delight from somewhere within. Arya’s stomach flops weirdly as she stalks through the door. Gendry lingers at the threshold. “Come _on_ ,” Arya hisses to him, and he trudges inside sullenly at her command.

Compared to the hallway, the room is sweltering from a fire roaring in the hearth. Someone has brought the last of the fall primroses and periwinkles in from the garden and put them in a bowl on the mantle to fill the chambers with a sweet sharp fragrance. 

Sansa sits at a small table beneath the window still wearing her nightshift, and wrapped in a shawl. One maid braids her hair in a way that conceals her growing but still uneven locks. Another maid changes the bandages on her leg. Arya hasn’t seen her sister using the crutch for the past week, but the seam of the long cut still looks angry against her pale skin. As the maid ties the thin cloth strip to stay in place, Sansa flinches, but then her expression returns to the same joyful smile she has worn since Robb gave her the permission she had sought.

Catelyn is already dressed for the day in a fine navy gown that Arya remembers from Winterfell. “Your father would have been so proud to see you grown into a fine lady,” her mother says, rising from a chair and kissing her cheek. 

Arya silently disagrees with the sentiment -- her father seemed never so pleased as when she showed him the water dancing moves she was learning at King’s Landing -- but she nods anyway. There’s no reason to start a fight now, not when she’s here on a happy errand, not on a day of such importance to Sansa and Catelyn, not to mention Robb’s kingdom. 

Arya jerks her head in the Gendry’s direction. Annoyingly, the blacksmith seems to be doing his best to blend in with the curtains. “I have a present for Sansa,” Arya reveals, and as the words leave her mouth she notices the silvery blue gown laid out on the bed beside the long white and grey cloak that Sansa has been stitching for weeks, and Arya suddenly feels inexplicably embarrassed about the slipshod gift she has been planning to give to her sister.

“Oh, Arya,” Sansa says, and she brings her hand to her heart. The gesture does not make Arya feel less self-conscious.

Arya glares at Gendry, who is staring determinedly at a spot on the stone floor. “Well? Give it to me,” Arya spits out, and instantly wishes that she hadn’t when her mother lets out her breath in disapproval. “If you will, Gendry,” Arya adds, her cheeks feeling hot and probably turning as ruddy as his were out in the yard.

Gendry darts forward and hands Arya the bundle, then steps back to his spot against the wall. Arya grinds her teeth together. He’s being so awkward that she almost wishes that she hadn’t brought him with her. But Gendry was the one who made the gift, and Sansa loves him because he has helped sneak her into Clegane’s chamber half a dozen times since Robb announced the betrothal.

Arya tosses the bundle onto Sansa’s lap and gazes up toward the ceiling when Sansa begins to unfold the fabric. Her sister gasps and utters a graceful little “Oh! How lovely!” 

Arya finally looks down. Sansa holds the delicate golden hair comb up for Catelyn to inspect. The three amber stones glint in the light streaming in through the window, while the three jet pieces sparkle black. Sansa’s eyes are weirdly dark as she mumbles graciously, “Arya. How thoughtful of you.” 

When Gendry first showed the comb to Arya, she thought it was finest-wrought piece of jewelry she ever saw. But now that Arya sees her sister looking just as beautiful as everyone always says, surrounded by all the finery that could be dug up from inside the walls of Riverrun, the gift seems like a pitifully plain effort. Arya’s lips pucker up in shame. She had tried to do something that a princess like Sansa would appreciate, but once again she has proven how bad she is at acting like the princess she is supposed to be.

Catelyn plucks the comb from Sansa’s fingers. “Where did you get these gems?” Arya’s mother asks, her voice flat, accusatory.

“I pried them off an old chalice that I found in the back of the silver and cutlery room, but Gendry forged the comb,” Arya proclaims defiantly, and she glances back at Gendry, who looks like he is going to vomit in shame, even though he has nothing to worry about. Arya just _admitted_ that she is the one who was responsible for repurposing the tarnished cup.

Catelyn sighs, but for once, instead of admonishing Arya, she simply says, “It was kind of you to think of your sister on this important day. And Gendry, I did not know you have been trained to smith jewelry.”

“I’m not, milady,” he replies, his voice coming out weirdly garbled. “Princess Arya demanded -- requested -- she wanted me to --”

Sansa holds up her hand, not unkindly, and Gendry falls silent. “It is beautiful work, and I will wear it in my hair today.” She pats at her eyes with a cloth, then nods to one of the maids, who takes the comb from Catelyn. Sansa’s voice lowers as she continues, “My lord will undoubtedly be pleased to see me wearing the colors of his house.” 

Arya stifles a snort. She keeps forgetting that she’s supposed to call the Hound “Lord Clegane” now that Robb has bestowed Hornwood Castle and all its lands upon Sansa’s betrothed for service to the crown. Supposedly Lord Manderly wasn’t very happy when Robb commanded him to hand the castle over to a mere knight from the south, at least not until Robb told the fat lord that he could have the newly-lordless Dreadfort. Of course, Manderly will still have to wrest his prize from the grasp of Lord Bolton’s bastard and root out the turncloak Theon Greyjoy, but the lord of White Harbor seems downright excited to do so. Little of that matters to Arya, though; it’s not where she is destined to travel after today.

Sansa’s maid weaves the comb into the braids and one of them holds a looking glass up for her to admire herself. She turns her long graceful neck to the side to get a good look at the piece. “Thank you, Arya. And Gendry.” She sniffles and holds her arms open to Arya, inviting an embrace.

Arya suffers a few gratitude-filled hugs from her sister and then her mother too. “I’m glad you like it,” she mumbles, and she and Gendry take their leave and shuffle down the corridor. 

Halfway back to the door leading to the yard, next to a small square window, Gendry stops short. He looks up and down the hallway as if checking to make sure nobody is coming, then pulls something out of the small sack at his belt, and he takes Arya’s hand in his. Just as Arya opens her mouth to ask him what in seven hells he thinks he is doing, he presses something cold and thin into her palm and closes her fingers around it.

Arya opens her hand. Resting on her palm is a plain silver hairpin with two prongs and a mottled grey pearl on the end. The pin isn’t smooth like the comb, but it has a kind of rough beauty to it that makes Arya think of the morning sunlight reflecting off the murky waters of the Trident. She furrows her brows, then looks back up at Gendry.

He is staring someplace over the top of her head. “Since you made me ruin the chalice anyway, I thought I better use all the precious stones you pried off.” Gendry scratches the back of his neck as he continues, “I thought you would want something simple --” he breaks off.

Arya stares back at the pin and clutches it in her fist like a drumstick. She looks up at Gendry’s face again, feeling extremely confused. Her first instinct is to throw the pin back in his face. She had thought that Gendry understood that dresses and jewels don’t suddenly make ugly girls beautiful, that he accepted her -- liked her -- befriended her just as she is, in her boy’s clothes, with dirt under her fingernails and a sword on her belt. Yet here he is, pressing dumb pearls into her hand, just like how her mother insisted that she wear this stupid gown. 

Gendry must read something of her thoughts on her face, though, because he says with just a little bit of a smirk, “You don’t want your hair falling in your eyes when you’re wearing the wolf’s head helm I’m going to make you, do you?”

Arya thinks he might just be saying that so she doesn’t push him, or maybe he just thought he would get in trouble if he kept the pearl from the chalice for himself. In any case, she turns around and allows him to twist the pin into her hair. She’d do practically anything to make sure that he keeps his promise to forge her helm, including wearing jewels on Sansa’s important day. 

“Pretty,” Gendry says, so quietly that Arya is not sure if he even means for her to hear it, so she doesn’t automatically protest or punch him in the arm for mocking her. She tamps down her lingering anger by reminding herself that one end of the pin is sharp, which is always useful for self-defense.

They walk back into the yard, which has grown crowded with many men in crisp doublets and a few ladies with fine gowns peeking out from beneath thick cloaks. Arya accompanies Gendry as far as the entrance to the great hall, where he has been assigned by the kitchen staff to help finish moving trestle tables around for the feast. She leaves her friend, giving him a kind of giddy smile, and she joins the stream of Robb’s bannermen making their way to the godswood. 

Golden leaves still cling to the bushes along the garden path, but now that winter is so near, no flowers bloom in the raised beds. As Arya picks her way down the row, Nymeria darts out from under one of the hedges, causing the men walking behind Arya to yelp and jump. 

Arya suppresses a chuckle. “Come on girl, we don’t want to be late,” she says to the direwolf, who falls into step with her. Arya still hasn’t quite figured out how her connection with Nymeria works, but she knows that sometimes if she concentrates hard enough, she can see from her friend’s eyes, can run with the pack beyond the castle walls. 

“Be sure to stay with me. Sansa asked for our help after the ceremonies,” she murmurs so that only the direwolf can hear. Arya isn’t quite sure she believes Sansa’s explanation for asking her to help distract the guests for a few minutes after the sept ceremony -- if she really wanted to give Clegane a gift without a bunch of people looking over her shoulder, she could have just snuck to his room last night to do so -- but truth be told, given the upcoming requirement to stand around for hours listening to words of piety, Arya rather looks forward to creating a little chaos later.

Arya and Nymeria arrive in the clearing beneath the ancient wild weirwood, its white branches rising far up above the orderly garden, its blood red canopy cloaking the guests beneath it in cold, dark shade. The face on Riverrun’s great tree, usually so sorrowful, looks just the slightest bit happy today, or so it seems to Arya. She is seized with relief once again that she isn’t still out in the forest, sleeping on the ground and digging for worms to eat. She pulls the hood of her woolen cloak up around her neck.

All of Robb’s remaining loyal bannermen are here, Umbers and Mormonts and Manderlys and a few of the half-wild men from far to the north, and couple crannogmen from south of here, and their various heirs and knights and bastards. Arya spies Uncle Edmure and the Blackfish standing together near the edge of the clearing, obviously doing their best to soak up the warm rays of sun before they are compelled to shiver in the shade for the duration of the ceremony. Or maybe it is just that they are trying to stand close to the two Frey girls who were sent over as hostages to help keep old Lord Walder’s successor, Black Walder, in line after his father’s assistance to Lord Bolton was discovered. The young ladies don’t seem to be very sorry to be rid of the Twins, though. Arya has noticed that the wispy one named Roslin blushes every time Edmure glances in her direction, and the fat one named Walda finds a reason to stand or sit next to Uncle Brynden every time he is within hailing distance of her. _I hope I’m out of Riverrun before they decide to have even more weddings,_ Arya thinks to herself grumpily. One such day in this gown is more than enough for her. She inclines her head toward her uncle and great-uncle and they nod in return, and she darts into the thicker part of the crowd. 

Queen Jeyne stands near the trunk of the weirwood with her mother and brothers and Grey Wind beside her, a circlet of gold on her head and a thick blue cloak covering her finery. The queen smiles as Arya approaches and embraces her, which is more awkward now that her belly is starting to stick out with Robb’s heir inside.

As Arya steps back from the queen, Nymeria sits and rubs her head against Arya’s hand. The direwolf’s ears are as high as Arya’s ribcage now, and she is fierce to behold even when she is being playful, as she is now. She has grown as big as Grey Wind, and wilder. But Arya senses her softness, too, the love that she shows in the early morning when she comes in after a hunt and curls up at Arya’s feet by the fire. In those moments, as now, Arya feels sated, comfortable, a sense of calm she has not known for years. In spite of all the uncertainty -- the unsettled succession to the throne in the south, the plan to rebuild Winterfell, the upcoming journey north -- Arya knows that she will survive with her sweet direwolf friend at her side.

All the guests have arrived and their quiet murmuring has been growing steadily louder, but Clegane and the rest of Arya’s family are nowhere to be seen. “I wish they would hurry up,” she whispers to Queen Jeyne and stamps her feet to get the blood moving in her toes. There is still a whole sept ceremony to be performed after the one for the old gods, and from what Arya remembers, those things last forever. Worse, Nymeria certainly won’t be allowed inside. Arya reaches up into her hair and fiddles with the pearl pin, anticipating the juicy pheasant leg that Gendry promised to save for her.

After a length of time that feels like hours but is probably no more than five minutes, Clegane shows up, his great bulk lumbering up a path behind the weirwood. The crowd’s murmurs collapse into an uneasy silence. Seven of Robb’s knights, each with a different sigil streaming across the finest armor they could rustle up on short notice, follow him. The bridegroom towers over them all, and he wears an expression on his face that looks more like he’s getting ready to muck out a stable full of horses instead of marrying the highborn princess of his dreams. For once Arya can’t blame him. It’s freezing, and everybody is staring at him even more than usual.

At least Catelyn found a tailor to put together some clothes that passably fit the humongous man. Clegane wears a pair of dark leather breeches and a green-black velvet doublet that probably needed three times as much material as other men’s clothes. As he comes to stand next to the big tree, he scratches his side as though the fine material makes him itch, and more than once he fiddles with the new sword that Robb had Gendry forge for him after Joffrey’s recapture. One of the knights, a heavy-set young man with the white and green Manderly merman splayed across his great stomach, smoothes out Clegane’s groom’s cloak across his huge shoulders before following the rest of the knights to stand at the edge of the clearing. 

Arya smiles as she catches sight of the three running dogs. Sansa and Catelyn sewed the cloak themselves with yellow and black silk cut from the Baratheon standard that the Blackfish had ordered struck down after Riverrun declared for Robb; the crooked legs on the third dog belie the single afternoon that Catelyn insisted Arya help with the stitches.

Clegane catches Arya’s eye and he scowls at her, and she is filled with a strange unexpected pity for him. As he stands there, all hunched over with his hair combed across his scars, he looks so alone and surprisingly miserable, without a single member of his family and a whole godswood full of lords and knights staring at him, probably thinking that Sansa should have been given to one of them instead of a middleborn Westerner.

Arya buries her hand in Nymeria’s thick warm ruff, and she remembers how it felt to be so horribly alone after she escaped the Red Keep, before she met Gendry, before she came to Riverrun and returned to her family. She would never wish that feeling on any member of her pack.

Nymeria yips and rises to her paws; the direwolf understands. “Good girl,” Arya whispers to her. The direwolf pads over to Clegane and nuzzles his fingertips, and he looks down at her, surprised but pleased. He scratches the wolf’s ears, and the animal’s tongue lolls out in contentment. A couple of the ladies behind Arya titter. 

Clegane looks back to Arya and he meets her eyes; the scarred corner of his mouth twitches. Hopefully he understands that he is not alone either, not any longer.

There is a whoop from the back of the crowd, and as the lords and ladies and castlefolk shuffle around and stand up straight, Arya spies Robb and Catelyn on either side of Sansa on the pathway. Arya’s throat hurts seeing them there, those who are left of her pack. 

For some reason Arya thinks of Jon, so far north at the Wall, and wonders if when the war is over, once Robb’s kingdom is finally established, if she’ll be able to visit her half-brother and Ghost up there. She thinks of Bran and Rickon, who everyone had thought dead but who might still be alive, if Lord Bolton’s correspondence with his bastard is to be believed. Arya thinks of Father, of the white birds in the sky. 

Something brushes against Arya’s wrist; it is Queen Jeyne, reaching out to hold hands. Jeyne gives her a shy smile. Maybe this woman is part of her pack too. Arya squeezes the queen’s fingers.

Sansa and Catelyn and Robb make it through the crowd up to the trunk of the weirwood where Clegane is standing. Sansa should be cold in her thin ceremonial Stark cloak and that silvery blue dress, the fabric of which is suited more for a warm summer afternoon than a frigid fall morning, but her cheeks are flushed and she seems not to notice that it is, in fact, very cold here in the shade. Sansa embraces her mother and brother long and gives them loving kisses on their cheeks, and when she finally turns toward Clegane, she freezes, then grins.

The Hound presses his lips together, and the unscarred corner of his mouth pulls upward with a knowing smirk. Arya lifts her eyes up to the tree canopy in exasperation. Before this moment, she and Gendry were the only ones who knew that Sansa and Clegane were sneaking kisses when no one else was looking, but now the whole of Riverrun can read the confession of their impropriety on her sister’s and the Hound’s faces, as clearly as if they’d scrawled it out in black ink across their skin.

Other than a few chuckles, no one says anything, however. One of the little crannogmen lays a strip of cloth beneath the tree, and with Clegane’s help, Sansa kneels on it. She asks for a blessing from the old gods, using words that Arya vaguely remembers Father trying to teach them both, back when Arya thought that spending time with Father was boring instead of painfully finite. Arya swallows and tightens her grip on Queen Jeyne’s hand.

Clegane gets down on one knee next to Sansa, and his massive arm brushes against his betrothed’s slim shoulder. The yellow edge of his cloak spreads out alongside the white and grey of Sansa’s. Arya is happy that her sister and the Hound have worn the cloaks here in the godswood, even though the exchange won’t take place until the ceremony in the sept. The grey direwolf joins the three black dogs, becoming a single pack.

Robb quietly prompts Clegane with the words that he must speak, and Clegane rasps them out so low that Arya cannot hear them, even though she is barely five paces away. When he is done, he remains kneeling, his head turned toward the weirwood’s face. 

No one speaks for close to a minute, and with a flood of embarrassment it occurs to Arya that Clegane doesn’t know what he is supposed to do next. Sansa seems to realize it as well, because she whispers something in the stump of his ear, and in a flurry of movement he rises and pulls her up off the cloth. She stumbles and he catches her by the forearms, and they smile at one another as though they both have forgotten that a hundred people are watching them. And then, in a definitively non-Northern tradition, Clegane bows his head down and presses his lips to Sansa’s. Her eyes pop open wide, and then she leans up into the kiss.

Grey Wind howls and Nymeria joins her, and the audience starts shouting and laughing. Robb claps his hand on Clegane’s shoulder, who breaks away from Sansa looking dazed, like he took a lance to the helm in a joust. Sansa clings to him, her eyes bright and her cheeks red. As the two walk together back through the crowd to the next ceremony in the sept, Arya overhears a grinning Sansa tease her new husband lovingly. “You may not be a _ser_ , but you finally took some vows.”

*_*_*_*_*_*

[to be continued]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I made up some of the old god ceremony stuff because . . . I wanted to. Thanks for reading, I love comments, the next part coming soon, and if you also like my story “Risk Assessment” I promise I’m still working on that too :D


	14. Sky, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor knows the real reason the King in the North allowed his precious sister to marry the Lannister dog, and it has nothing to do with rewarding courageous deeds or winning the fair maiden’s heart, the way that the singers will tell the tale many summers from now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It’s been a long time, but I hope you’re still interested. Still have some fun stuff ahead. Reminder that this story features eighteen year old Sansa for . . . reasons.
> 
> Recap: Ding Dong, Joffrey’s dead. Robb is King in the North, pending some negotiations with the Southron lands. Sandor and Sansa are married in the eyes of the old gods and halfway there with the new.

Sandor knows the real reason the King in the North allowed his precious sister to marry the Lannister dog, and it has nothing to do with rewarding courageous deeds or winning the fair maiden’s heart, the way that the singers will tell the tale many summers from now. 

It’s simply that Joffrey, miserable dead cunt that he was, lied convincingly enough about Sansa’s purported barrenness that Robb’s lords didn’t want to take a chance with her. It was the only thing that the bastard king did on the whole of their journey that actually produced results he intended, although now that Sandor is gazing down into Sansa’s smiling face in the hazy, incense-laden light of Riverrun’s sept, Sandor doesn’t mind so much that Joffrey’s plan worked. Let the lords think what they will. Sandor’s cloak is draped over Sansa’s shoulders, and he wants for nothing.

 _Nothing except for supper, anyway,_ Sandor thinks, his stomach twisting like a snarl of rope just as it did in the forest a lifetime ago. His mouth waters for a horn of ale, or a skin of wine, or even some of the sickly sweet mead the Riverlanders love. 

The septon drones on before the congregation even though the cloak exchange has already taken place. Finally, after an eternity, with all of King Robb’s followers staring, the little bird swears her love before the Seven and stands on tiptoe and presses her lips to Sandor’s for the second time that day, for the second time as his wife. The congregation cheers again, just as they did in the godswood, but this time the people in the crowd do not wait for the bride and groom to walk outside first before they start shuffling out of the sept’s big open doors. They must be as hungry as Sandor.

Sandor clasps Sansa’s hand in his and gives her a sideways grin, which she returns dazzlingly. Together they descend the few steps from the altar and walk through the now near-empty hall to the doors leading to the yard.

As Sandor gets closer, he hears a tremendous ruckus coming from outside, but he can’t quite see who or what is the cause amidst the dust being kicked up and his eyes adjusting to the bright afternoon light. The septon and the maester who helped perform the marriage ceremony shoulder out past the newly wedded couple in an effort to help stem the chaos in the yard, and out of a lifetime of habit, Sandor places his hand on Sansa’s shoulder, silently urging her to stay back so that he can assess potential threats. 

Sandor peers out into the yard. Somebody’s squire is struggling to control a pair of spooked shaggy ponies that clearly aren’t accustomed to the presence of direwolves; the horses rear up as Grey Wind and Nymeria yowl and bound back and forth in a frenzy. A hunting hound breaks loose from its rotund master and joins the melee with a gleeful bark, knocking down a serving girl struggling to roll a barrel of wine across the uneven ground in the process. As the young woman curses the dog, the knights and men at arms nearby snort and guffaw. The kennelmaster and the stablemaster start up a shouting match that in no way resolves the situation between the beasts. Arya zips past, headed in the direction Nymeria, her hair flying about her face unpinned and her skirts muddied. Sandor swears that he sees the girl catch Sansa’s eye and give a wink, but before he can ask Sansa what it’s about, Lady Catelyn bustles after her daughter, alternately scolding and muttering about wolves not being pets. King Robb stands on the steps of the great hall, grinning and yelling at the guests to clear out of the yard and come to the feast. 

Sandor can’t help but laugh roughly to himself. It’s not the wedding reception he ever expected. He never expected any wedding at all.

He feels Sansa tugging his hand gently, and he lets her lead him away from the doors of the sept. She pulls him into the cold shadows of the castle walls, in the opposite direction from the entrance to the great hall. He glances toward the crowd of people, who seem to be divided in interest between watching the ruckus caused by the wolves and getting a good seat for the feast. No one seems to be paying attention to the couple supposedly being celebrated.

Curious, Sandor accompanies his bride along the edge of the yard, around the kitchens, and toward a little half-sized door stuck into one of the storage buildings. “You took us to the wrong place,” he grumbles, wondering if he’s ever going to get to eat anything today.

“No I didn’t,” Sansa insists as she pushes open the door and ducks down into the darkness. 

Sandor follows her, having to bend at the waist just to make it across the threshold. When he gets inside, he stands and straightens up, and his head all but brushes the ceiling. A tiny window above the door lets in just enough light for Sandor to see big oak casks and sheafs of trout wrapped in paper and twine. The whole room reeks of fish and salt, and it’s even colder in here than it is outside.

“Explain,” Sandor demands, looking down at Sansa, who has slammed the half-door behind him and is struggling to shove one of the smaller casks in front of it. 

“Arya promised me that she could keep up the distraction for about half an hour after the ceremony,” Sansa replies, her voice pitched and shaky. She unclasps the yellow and black cloak and tosses it onto a sheaf of paper-wrapped fish. The cloak slides off and a couple of the packages come with it, fish heads poking out beside the black embroidered dogs. Sansa doesn’t pick up her new garment; she is too busy kicking off her slippers and fiddling with her skirts.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Sandor hisses, his eyes opening wide at the sight of Sansa’s stockings, the delicate blue ribbons holding them up at her calves. 

She pulls the skirts higher, and the shift underneath it too, and he can see her bare knees and the lower part of her thighs, and little glints of golden hair against her pale skin. “Removing my smallclothes, what does it look like? I suggest you do the same. Like I said, we don’t have much time.” And then her skirts and shift and everything is all bunched up at her waist, and Sandor can see her simple silken undergarment as she is stepping out of it, and he swears that he sees a flash of copper before she drops her skirts again.

Sandor stands before her, his feet frozen, his mouth nearly useless, his cock as hard as the new sword at his side. “I don’t understand --” he says, feeling very stupid indeed, and anger starts to to well up, which is usually what happens when he feels stupid.

Sansa straightens up and stands before him again. “Please, Sandor, quickly, before they notice we’re gone,” she pleads, reaching for the clasp at his sword belt, and that is when he sees fear in her eyes. 

He grabs her hands and holds them away from him, and she seems more like a scared wild animal than a blushing bride. Her expression stabs icicles into his guts. “Stop,” he growls, tightening his fingers around hers. “I see what you want to do, but I don’t understand why. There is a feast waiting for us, and a hundred of your brother’s sworn men, and a featherbed for -- after.” He pictures her wrapped in the sheets, her loose hair against her skin, and stuffs the thought away. “Why would you possibly want this right now? Here?”

Sansa gazes back at him with steel in her eyes. She looks afraid and terrifying at the same time. “I’m your wife in name but not in fact,” she replies as she pulls her hands from his grasp. A wisp of her hair has flown free from her braids, and she smoothes it back from her face. “Joffrey and Lord Bolton came so very close to getting what they wanted, but you and I stole everything from them. I’ll take no chances that someone will take you from me. Not after I’ve sought the blessings of the old gods and the new.” She breaks his gaze and reaches again for his sword belt with clear determination. 

Sandor blinks, slowly, thickly, as Sansa fiddles with the ornate clasps at his waist. “Why didn’t you tell me --” he breaks off, staring down at her fingers as though he’s watching this happen to someone else. _Why didn’t you tell me this plan when you snuck up to my chambers?_ he wants to ask. But on those secret evenings the subject of the wedding night had never come up between them at all; Sandor had spent most of that time interrogating Sansa about the North and their new keep Hornwood and her family. Their long conversations would only break up when Sansa would occasionally insist on “practicing” some near-chaste kisses before the wedding. Contrary to what the brats Arya and Gendry must have thought when they helped sneak Sansa to his room, Sandor had hardly dared to hold the hand of his betrothed under his new king’s roof.

Sansa bursts into a bout of nervous laughter, which is followed by a satisfied grunt as she releases his belt and lets the scabbard thunk against the stone floor. “You would have objected to this,” she replies, her eyes on the floor, her expression serious again. Her hands flutter around the laces of his leather breeches, though she seems apprehensive to touch him now.

“You’re right about that,” Sandor mumbles, staring down at Sansa’s long fingers so close to that part of his body. His stomach settles uneasily. He thinks of the thousand times he imagined taking her beneath a hedge in the woods, in a dark hallway of the Red Keep. But now, when she is almost begging him, her look of fear makes him hesitate. He whispers with gravel and dust in his throat, “If we wait until tonight, it should hurt less --”

“Let me tell you what hurt,” Sansa growls, cutting him off as she takes a fistful of his fine velvet doublet. “Ser Meryn’s fist on my face. My empty stomach in the forest. Joffrey’s hateful gaze on my body.” Suddenly she is shaking, and her eyes shine with tears. She takes Sandor’s hand and presses his palm against her warm face. 

Sandor’s heart thumps hard at her words. He remembers those awful times, but he also remembers putting his own knife to her throat on that final night that he was Joffrey’s dog, and he wonders if Sansa is thinking about how he hurt her once, too, wonders if she knows that he would kill himself before he would ever do that again.

She must read something of his thoughts in his eyes, for she adds, “This will be a but a pinch compared to those horrors.” She reaches up and strokes his scarred cheek.

“Aye, wife,” Sandor says, and he likes the way the word feels on his tongue. “Let me make you mine, in the eyes of gods and men.” _The words of the only vows I’ve ever sworn,_ he thinks. He gathers up her skirts and tries not to stare at her bare pretty thighs and golden hairs against pale skin, at the silk stockings and ribbons. 

It doesn’t take long. Twenty thrusts, maybe; a groan, a release that is an utter relief after months and months of pressure and pain and fear. 

Now that it’s over, he’s not sure what to say. He settles on the one thing he can think of. “Did I hurt you?”

There is a little bit of fresh blood seeping through the thick bandage on her thigh, and a little between her legs -- and on him.

Sansa flinches and pulls away from him, and puts her legs down and stands up. She smooths down the crumpled skirts of her long dress and doesn’t look at him. “Not really, no,” she replies, clearly as surprised as he is. “You’re very gentle with me,” she adds, smiling.

Sandor pulls up his breeches, oddly relieved that his hairy white arse isn’t out in the open any longer for some drunken serving wench to stumble in and see, disconcerted that Sansa would ever call him gentle. The idea isn’t a bad one, though. He’d like to be gentle with her, from now on.

“That was a bit different from what my mother described to me this morning,” Sansa comments as she slips her undergarments up beneath her shift. She gives him a shy smile. “I look forward to trying again this evening.”

At that, Sandor can’t help but grin.

*_*_*_*_*_*

Arya glances down the high table toward her sister and Clegane as she slips a ham bone under the table for Nymeria. Sansa looks like the bloody Maiden reborn, and even Clegane seems have to loosened up a little at the feast. He doesn’t smile much, not even when Sansa leans over to place her hand on his or whisper in his ear, but he does manage to stop looking like somebody stuffed a lemon in his mouth.

The feast has been just as boozy and boisterous as Arya expects, with men yowling bawdy celebratory tunes and dogs barking and serving girls spilling wine. Arya’s stuffed herself with fried fish and baked apples and roast chicken, but she she hasn’t been able to take so much as a sip of ale. She can’t drink any more, not without wanting to retch, not since she helped Jaqen massacre all the drunken soldiers at Harrenhall with the weasel soup gambit. Come to think of it, she hasn’t really been able to eat soup since that night, either. She pats the lump in her bodice where the Braavosi coin is tucked away in a pouch, but just as her thoughts are growing dark again, she hears her name yelled from one of the tables below.

The shout is from Dacey Mormont, one of the women warriors sworn to Robb, inviting Arya to come sit with the Bear Island family. After Arya had killed Lord Bolton, Robb had finally insisted over Catelyn’s objections that Arya receive formal combat training. The ladies Mormont had happily agreed to teach Arya everything they knew, under the condition that Arya accompany them to search the northernmost countryside for Bran and Rickon. Arya will be sad to leave her mother and sister and brother again, and maybe even Gendry a little bit, but her blood sings for the adventure, for the promise of growing into the lady knight she had always dreamed of becoming, for the possibility of finding her sweet beloved younger brothers and finally reuniting what’s left of her pack. 

Lady Dacey and her sisters insist that Arya sit in the middle of the bench to listen to stories of killing mammoth-sized bears with their axes, of chopping a reaver in half with one hand while holding a baby to the breast with another. Arya’s cheeks hurt from grinning so hard. She can hardly wait.

After a while, Clegane lumbers over to her, a big purple stain marring the front of his doublet. Arya bets that Sansa is extremely disappointed that her new husband has already messed up his only nice clothes. “What do you want, _Lord_ Clegane?” she shouts over the guffaws of her companions.

He rolls his eyes to the rafters. “Been waiting to say that all night, have you?” he slurs, his breath heavy with the stink of wine. He hunches down and gestures for Arya to lean closer. When she does, he belches in her face, and Arya groans in disgust. He would never do that in front of Sansa. But before she can berate him for how gross he is, he asks her, “You know that brown mare that we brought Joffrey in on?”

Arya nods, glares into his eyes with her best sneer. “What about it?”

A smile appears on his gruesome face. “It’s yours.”

“I don’t understand.” She _does_ want a horse, especially a nice sturdy one like that little brown mare, but she hasn’t dared ask Robb for one since they have all been needed by real knights. She never thought that Clegane of all people would offer her one.

Clegane is still looming over her. He looks one way and then the other, very obviously making sure that no one else is listening. “You helped your sister after the wedding, didn’t you?” he says.

“Yes.” Arya is still confused about that, as Sansa had only told Arya that she needed to give something to Clegane in private immediately afterwards. Prying had gotten Arya nowhere, so eventually she had just agreed to Sansa’s request and had whipped Nymeria into a frenzy and had managed to keep up the chaos in the yard even longer than she had thought possible. If she is being honest with herself, she was happy to do it -- after two boring ceremonies in a row, she and Nymeria had a lot of pent up energy anyway. “Did she give you a present?” Arya asks.

Clegane blinks and looks back in the direction of his new wife, who is sitting up at the high table, patting Queen Jeyne’s belly and smiling beautifully in spite of her rather wine-stained teeth. “Uhm. Yes.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She certainly did. Look, if you don’t want the mare, I’ll give it to Gendry. The lad could use a good mount.”

“No!” Arya yells in protest. Gendry is a _terrible_ rider. He needs some old slow nag to learn on, not a nice pretty mare like the one Sandor is offering. “I’ll take the horse. Now stop bothering me and go back to your _wife._ ”

“Gladly.” He staggers down the walkway in the direction of the high table, getting stopped every few feet by men who want to clink their chalices to his, or clap their hand across his broad back, or share a bite of the food at their table. 

Arya turns back to the Mormonts, smiling but not really listening to their stories any longer. Soon a group of musicians strike up joyful celebratory music, and Robb leads Queen Jeyne to a clear space on the floor to dance. Lords and knights and ladies soon join them, and Arya sees her own mother spinning on the Greatjon’s arm. The room grows hot and loud -- too loud, really, too much like that terrible night at Harrenhall -- and Arya finds herself on her feet, running past the trestle tables, past the knights manning the double doors and into the quiet, cold yard.

After a clear morning and a grey, cloudy afternoon, snow has begun to fall. It muffles the sound of the guards and men at arms enjoying their extra rations of booze around a fire on the other end of the yard. They don’t see her. They never do. It is what will make her an excellent knight, after the Mormonts are finished training her.

The cold air and snow helps, but Arya still feels the suffocating heat from the chambers on her skin. She needs to get higher up, away from the noise of the celebration. She flees the yard and climbs one of the exterior stairways that leads to a lookout point at the top of the castle walls. As she clambers up onto the stone steps, she hears loud footfalls and someone breathing behind her -- someone whose breaths she has been paying attention to for a while.

“Gendry!” she exclaims in equal parts dismay and relief. She doesn’t want him to see her this way, all wild and nervous, but she’s not sure she wants to be alone either. She gestures to him to come to join her.

His face is red, but not just because of the cold and the running. He’s been drinking, which he hardly ever does, and so he will be even more useless than usual. Great.

She tries to shush him, but he can’t seem to keep his voice down. “Where are you going, Arya?”

“Nowhere,” she murmurs, looking at the snowflakes melting on his new black jerkin. “Just needed to get out of there. Too hot and loud.”

In spite of the dense, drunken expression on his face, Gendry seems to understand. He had helped her kill all those soldiers at Harrenhall, and he doesn’t much like crowds either. He reaches out and pats her roughly on the shoulder, then drops his hand awkwardly to his side. “I was outside for the same reason,” he admits, his cheeks growing ruddy.

Arya looks away from him, out over the side of the wall toward the forest. The trees glisten with a light dusting of snow. She sighs heavily, and her breath puffs out like smoke from a dragon. “I just want to get out of this castle. I’m tired of being cooped up, of people telling me what to do.”

“But won’t you be sorry to leave everyone?” Gendry asks a little too quickly, and something in the tone of his voice makes Arya wonder who he means by “everyone.”

She looks down at Gendry’s bare hands, which he has begun to rub together. He’s probably freezing cold without his cloak on. She sidesteps a bit closer to him, trying not to think of the way her mother had cried and cried when Robb had commanded Arya to leave Riverrun and go north with the Mormonts. “We’re traveling with Sansa and Sandor as far as Hornwood. I have plenty of time to spend with them.” _And you too,_ she thinks, but saying so aloud would be ridiculously stupid and pathetic. Besides, she’s not going to be at Hornwood that long anyway. Arya and the Mormonts will stay just long enough to resupply for the search party, while Gendry will remain at the keep, since no one knows whether the Bolton bastard left the any of the blacksmiths alive there. Robb has also hinted that he wants to keep Gendry someplace safe yet remote, at least until they can figure out why father thought Gendry was so important.

Gendry shivers. “I will miss Lord Clegane. He brings the most interesting work for me. It’s all oversized, and complicated, and --” he stops talking as Arya narrows her eyes.

“What are you talking about? You’re staying with the Hound and Sansa at Hornwood!”

Gendry looks back at her with an equally confused expression. “Did the princess not tell you?”

Now Arya is really irritated. Is Gendry going someplace else? Is her pack to be even further separated, blown to the corners of the Seven Kingdoms like before? “Sansa never tells me anything,” Arya pouts.

“Oh,” Gendry says thickly. “After we reach Hornwood, I am to travel with you and the ladies Mormont and help search for Rickon and Bran. Princess Sansa says you’ll need every good man on the journey, especially if winter comes before we find them.” He hiccups slightly, his ears glowing as red as his cheeks. “Then Lord Clegane laughed real loud and said that I’m to keep an eye on you.”

“ _Gods,_ ” Arya wails, thinking, _Clegane is so stupid. So gross._ She thinks about the little mare he has given her. _So kind,_ a small voice inside admits. 

Gendry’s shoulder touches Arya’s, and for once she doesn’t jump back. He isn’t looking at her face when he says, “I had thought you would be pleased. We traveled together before and kept each other safe. Don’t you want me to come with you?”

Arya doesn’t answer. She thinks of Sansa and Clegane kissing under the branches of the weirwood in front of everybody. It wasn’t the first time she saw them do it. She saw them kiss a hundred times before, in the weeks leading up to their wedding, when they thought nobody was watching.

 _Bugger this,_ Arya thinks. _Bugger them and their meddling._

She turns to Gendry and squeezes her eyes shut and smashes her lips right up against his.

It’s not how she expected it to feel, not at all. Gendry just stands there, frozen, his lips pressed together, his nostrils blowing cold air on the side of Arya’s face. He smells like beer and forge smoke. Arya is afraid to open her eyes to see the expression on his face. All in all, kissing seems to be a very stupid, very disappointing activity, much like basically everything else that Sansa likes to do.

Then Gendry slowly, carefully rests his hands around Arya’s wrists and guides her to place her arms over his broad shoulders. He embraces her and pulls her body close to his, and parts his mouth slightly against hers.

 _Oh,_ Arya thinks as Gendry’s tongue slips past her lips, as she suddenly feels a different, better kind of heat. _Maybe this isn’t so stupid, after all._

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Sansa relaxes into the pillows of the great featherbed that she shared with Arya until this evening. She pulls the fresh warm sheets up over her shoulder and snuggles closer to her snoring naked husband.

After the feast, Sansa and Sandor had stumbled up to their chambers, their feet heavy from the long day and the many glasses of wine from toast after toast. No one had suggested a bedding so there hadn’t been one, but Sansa wasn’t sure if that was because Robb had forbidden it or because the Northerners were all terrified of Sandor. Sansa had undressed and Sandor had laid her down on the thick coverlet and covered her body with his. She had still been a little sore, and her leg had begun to ache, but Sandor had said many loving if not very poetic things to her, and he kissed her over and over, and afterward he had held her to him, and now he is flopped on his stomach with his face obscured by his tangled hair and apparently is dead to the world til morning.

Sansa brushes Sandor’s hair away from his face and smiles down at him. His nose twitches but he does not otherwise provide any evidence of awakening.

Sansa yawns and looks into the embers of the fire, around the dark room with its rich tapestries and curtains, to the candle on the table beside her bed that has burnt down low. Her eyes rest on the closed and bolted door.

Beyond the door there is duty, and danger. She has heard that her new, unseen home of Hornwood is a stalwart yet lovely castle with many skilled knights and industrious smallfolk paying its rents. But Sandor will spend much of his time keeping the roads open between White Harbor and the other key northern keeps while Robb continues to work out peace with the south. Sansa will have to manage the household and make sure that the keep serves as a safe waystation for Robb’s forces to rest and resupply. And beyond that, she and Sandor will have to contend with rogue Bolton supporters and Iron Islander reavers, with Lannister spies and Frey malcontents who were thrown out of the Twins. She has even heard that her half-brother Jon has written to Robb, telling tales of wildling raids and worse, beseeching the North for help, warning that all of Westeros will find itself in danger if someone does not send reinforcements. But Hornwood is so far south of there, and tucked away so safely in the woods, surely she and Sandor will not be in danger from creatures Beyond the Wall. Will they?

Sandor snorts in his sleep and rolls over, resting his great hairy arm over Sansa’s waist and tucking her against him. His hand roves across her belly and Sansa hopes that she is already carrying his child, to prove to all the Northern lords that they were fools for believing Joffrey. She pats her husband’s hand and sits up to blow the candle out.

*_*_*_*_*_*

[to be continued - one more chapter!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A thing I feel like I didn’t address perfectly here: Many chapters back I included a reference to the book canon scene where Sandor puts the knife to Sansa’s throat (an action that a worthy partner would not do). GRRM is (sort of) solving this issue via “killing” the Hound and having him be “reborn” as a peaceful person. Since Sandor’s transformation in this story happens on the road rather than through a spiritual journey, I couldn’t explain his change in this way. I thought about leaving out the knife threat for this story. But then I was feeling like, as a progressive SanSan fan, I wrote this story partly to help me deal with my own weird feelings of liking this pair in spite of one half of the OTP threatening a terrible thing to the other half in canon, so I didn’t want to cut that part of canon. Yes, Sandor did many things in this story to try to prove himself worthy to Sansa, and to prove that he has transformed as a character who would never do something like that to her again; yes, Sansa in this story forgave him for that action. But I also didn’t want to make it seem like the message of the story is, “Someone who does something abusive should be able to earn trust and love if they do enough good stuff.” I don’t believe that. As the good King Stannis puts it, “A good act does not wash out the bad, nor a bad act the good.” It will be Sandor’s duty to prove every day that he will never act that way again, and it will be Sansa’s right to continue forgiving him or revoke her forgiveness if she ever changes her mind.
> 
> Errrrrr...anyway...If I were a better writer I would find a way to make all this clear in the story. Someday I hope that I become adept enough to allow my stories to stand completely on my own with none of this commentary...but since fanfiction is more of a dialogue with the fandom than published writing is, I thought some of you might be interested in these thoughts as well.
> 
> ONE CHAPTER LEFT AND IT MUST BE DONE BEFORE THE END OF THE YEAR I PROMISE!!!!1111!!!!1!!!1!


	15. Sky, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gust from the raging blizzard outside sends a puff of ashes down the stone chimney flue, over the roaring flames, across the hearth, and straight into Sansa’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It’s been a while; sorry ‘bout that. Handy reminders from the previous chapter: Sansa and Sandor got married and were on their way to hold down Hornwood Castle and surrounding strategic lands for the King in the North. Arya and Gendry formed part of a larger search party to track down Bran and Rickon. 
> 
> In this chapter, 1) Some time has passed since the abovementioned events, and 2) I sorta played with Westeros geography a little bit for plot purposes whoops haha.

A gust from the raging blizzard outside sends a puff of ashes down the stone chimney flue, over the roaring flames, across the hearth, and straight into Sansa’s face. She coughs and thwacks the back of her head painfully against the chair rail. As far as this goes for miseries caused by the worst winter in Westerosi memory, it is slight, but it nevertheless jars Sansa’s porcelain-shard nerves.

Baby Eddor, who until now was carrying out his hour-of-the-wolf nighttime nursing session, gurgles grumpily and chomps his recently erupted bottom teeth into his mother’s tender flesh. 

“Ow!” Sansa cries sharply, which elicits a wail from the baby.

“What happened?” Sandor croaks, his voice raw and exhausted. The old wooden bed frame, which has not been replaced since the previous lord and lady of the castle vacated the premises years ago, creaks under his weight as he ratchets himself into a sitting position. 

Now Sansa feels more than just physical discomfort; she feels guilty for waking her husband. To say that Sandor hasn’t been sleeping much would be an understatement. He’s been leading numerous expeditions to keep the road between White Harbor and Winterfell open; not only is the port is a critical supply center for Robb’s army, but the passage serves as the only escape for thousands of smallfolk fleeing the horrors of the far North. “I’m fine. The baby is fine,” Sansa assures him, hoping that both of her beloved males will go back to sleep. “Eddor is strong and healthy and hungry, that’s all,” she whispers as she bounces the baby.

Sandor grunts, and even though Sansa isn’t looking at him, she knows that he is rubbing the scars around his eye with the heel of his hand. “If the boy keeps eating like that, he’ll be larger than me by his tenth name day,” he mutters for the hundredth time, mostly with pride. But there is also fear undulating through his low voice. Undoubtedly he is thinking of his evil, dead brother, who grew to eight feet tall and who, by all accounts, suffered a most horrible but much deserved end. Sandor is probably imagining the wights sweeping across the charred wreckage of King’s Landing and reanimating Ser Gregor’s corpse. He falls into a brooding silence.

After a while, Sansa says, “You shouldn’t worry about the White Walkers bringing him back, you know. His body almost certainly disintegrated when the Queen burnt King’s Landing to the ground.” Her husband harrumphs grumpily at her ability to guess his thoughts. “Besides, if the wights make it as far south as the Crownlands, you and I will be long dead,” she continues.

In her head the words sounded like a morbid joke, one of the kind that Sandor makes frequently, but now that she has said the sentence aloud, it just sounds like a pitiable, inevitable truth. Sansa moves baby Eddor up to her shoulder now that he has nodded off to sleep. _I won’t let the wights take you,_ she vows, even though she does not know how she can possibly keep that promise. She kisses her boy’s dark hair reverently, wishing that Robb or Jon would send some good news about their efforts to halt the undead invaders from moving further south.

Sansa stands and pads over to the bed, and as she sits down next to her husband the frame issues a smaller, higher squeal. “Maester Wulfric said that you ordered the men to start lighting fires atop the castle walls at night,” she murmurs, hoping to prompt an explanation.

Sandor gently grazes his rough fingertips over Eddor’s soft forehead. “For now, it’s just a precaution. If we were in Winterfell I would worry about using up our timber stockpiles, but Hornwood is surrounded by a forest.” He exhales and drops his hand to the top of his thigh. “But if the sorcerers who brought down the Wall are controlling the White Walkers, we need to be prepared to fight them down here. Who knows what kind of magic they stole from Valyria? Robb’s men and Jon’s wildlings won’t be enough, and even the dragons may not be able to push them back.”

A chill runs down Sansa’s spine though the room is warm and stuffy. For some reason she is reminded of the terror Joffrey inspired in her breast just a few short years ago. Her memory of the broken bastard king is downright fanciful compared to the appalling tales she has heard of the monstrous beings and the three-eyed sorcerers. “If even the dragons can’t stop the wights, how can we possibly --”

Before Sansa can finish, there is a soft tap against the door. “Enter,” she commands.

Sansa’s maid comes in, accompanied by a thin, balding man with a chain about his neck. His young servant carries a lantern, casting long shadows on the walls of the chamber.

“My lord, my lady,” Maester Wulfric whispers perfunctorily, his close-set eyes darting between Sansa and Sandor. “You -- well, you’ll need to come see for yourself. Immediately, if it pleases you.”

There’s nothing that pleases Sansa about the Maester’s tone, but she wraps Eddor in a soft blanket and carefully hands him to the maid, then pulls a thick wool robe over her nightshift. She sees Sandor shrug a roughspun tunic over his bare torso, and together they follow the maester out of their quarters.

They walk through the dark corridors and down a back staircase, silent but for the clink of the maester’s chain and the shuffling of the servant, and Sansa resists her anxious desire to reach out and grasp Sandor’s hand. The last time that Maester Wulfric interrupted them in the middle of the night, he came to report that one of Robb’s supply caravans had been set upon by a ragged cabal of Lannister deserters, and that all the dead, friend and enemy alike, would have to be burnt rather than buried. Sansa’s stomach sours as she recalls that still, ugly dawn, with the awful greasy smell of burning flesh hanging in the cold air. She swallows and prays that the news is not something just as bad or worse.

The four of them step across the threshold of the servants’ entrance into Hornwood’s great hall, a drafty two-story space with a flat timber beam ceiling and only one dark, cold fireplace. The room has none of the soaring columns and vaulted arches of the hall that once adorned the Red Keep before the Queen’s dragons blasted it to its foundations, nor even the carved stone grace of the halls of Riverrun or Winterfell, especially not in the middle of the night, when the only light comes from the servant’s lantern and a pair of thick candles sputtering near the big doors. But it’s been a long time since Sansa cared about grandiosity; now, she is content with the thick protective walls around her keep, the enormous stockpile of firewood in the yard, and the barrels of food in the storerooms that provide the only shreds of hope for carrying her family and her people safely through the winter.

The maester’s servant trots down the aisle between the tables and unbars the heavy main doors. He barely scrambles out of the way in time to avoid being trampled by a pack of wildlings and an enormous furry black dog. 

_No, not a dog -- a direwolf,_ Sansa thinks. “Shaggydog?” she whispers, recognizing the animal from a lifetime ago. “ _Rickon?_ ” she gasps as she takes in the tall young man clearly leading the group of warriors. 

He jerks his head affirmatively. “Yes, sister. It’s Rickon,” he grunts with a clipped accent in a grown man’s voice. Nothing else identifies him as the curly-haired, rosy cheeked, naughty child Sansa last saw the day she left Winterfell as Joffrey’s betrothed. Now Rickon stands before her, a full head taller than she is and probably still growing, his Tully blue eyes peering out from beneath his heavy brow, his long auburn hair knotted and braided across the top of his scalp and cropped short near a mangled mess of scar tissue that was once his left ear. He has wrapped himself in sealskin practically from head to toe, but where his neck is exposed Sansa can see a crudely-inked image of a twisted blade or spike or -- _a unicorn horn,_ Sansa realizes, remembering Old Nan’s tales of Skagos. Perhaps the rumors of Rickon’s whereabouts were true, and somehow the search party sent out so long ago has finally tracked him down. 

Sansa wants nothing more than to rush to her long lost brother and embrace him, then pepper him with questions about his years in hiding, but the jagged obsidian blade tucked into his belt and the ice in his eyes stops her where she stands, and she stays silent.

“It is not just me,” he mutters, flicking his eyes toward his party. The warriors, scarred and tattooed men and women wrapped in heavy animal skins, step aside. Nymeria bounds forward with a warning yip, and from behind her stagger two bundles of fur topped by mops of dark hair -- Arya, bent over with murder raging in her grey eyes, and Gendry, whose own blue eyes swim with terror. 

“Help,” Gendry breathes, and Sandor gently pushes past Sansa before stepping forward and hoisting her sister up into his arms as if she really weighs no more than the rag bag that she appears to be. 

Arya groans and mumbles something into Sandor’s ear. Sandor’s one thick eyebrow arches upward and he shifts the girl to his other side. “Come, wife,” he murmurs to Sansa. “Lady Arya needs you.”

“Of course, my lord,” Sansa replies, courteous as ever, even as hysteria rises in her breast. Arya’s face appears as grey-green as the hall’s stone floor. Sansa glances back at Maester Wulfric, who nods, knowing his duty.

“See to your sister,” the maester agrees, his eyes shifting amongst the three Starks. “I will help Lord Rickon’s men, and then come to assist you.”

“Thank you,” says Sansa. She bustles down the aisle in her husband’s wake with Nymeria padding behind.

Together they retrace their steps through the dark corridor, with Arya hissing in apparent pain. When they reach the lord and lady’s chambers, Sandor lays Arya on the bed, shooes the maid out with orders to tell the maester to hurry over, lifts the sleeping baby Eddor from his crib, and exits the room without a word to Sansa.

Before Sansa has time to follow him back out and object to his lack of explanation, Arya moans from the bed. “Help me with these clothes,” she mumbles thickly, wincing as she speaks. Nymeria growls as Sansa approaches, but Arya cuts her off the wolf’s unfriendliness with a look.

Sansa gingerly removes Arya’s muddy, cracking boots, her wool stockings, and her leather breeches, then begins to undrape the seal fur wrappings around her sister’s torso. As she reveals Arya’s form, she gasps and drops the skins to the floor.

Arya looks into Sansa’s eyes, glaring with as much dread as anger. Then she winces again and grabs her great swollen stomach and moans.

“You’re -- you’re pregnant!” Sansa cries out in shock.

“Not for much longer, I hope,” Arya counters with a growl that she just barely manages to stifle.

Evidently the gods are not inclined to grant Arya’s wish. A day and a night pass with the girl writhing and screaming and bleeding on Sansa’s bed. The maester gives Arya a potion that he claims will ease the agony, though Sansa knows well enough that the only real way to eliminate the pain is to deliver the baby. Nymeria paces back and forth by the fireplace but otherwise remains quiet. Sansa stays by Arya’s side, stroking her sister’s hair and washing her face, and every few hours some woman brings a squalling Eddor to Sansa to nurse, even as she towels the sweat from Arya’s forehead.

And then, in a second, it is all over, the baby is out, slippery and pink and raven haired and howling with surprise. “A girl!” Sansa announces excitedly, and Eddor startles and begins crying at the sound of the other baby. The maester places the newborn in Arya’s arms, and Arya, drained and frightened, just stares down at her glassily.

“Now what?” Arya whispers, her eyes wide, her face unsmiling as she clutches her daughter to her chest.

“Now your life changes forever,” Sansa replies over the wails of her own baby, too tired herself to say more.

Arya swallows, her visage devoid of the courage and strength that Sansa is accustomed to seeing there.

A little later, after the maester and the maids have cleaned up Arya and the baby and have left the room, Sandor knocks at the door. Sansa covers Arya and the nursing baby with a clean shawl, then invites her husband inside. “So Eddor has a little cousin to knock around,” Sandor rasps by way of congratulations.

Sansa waits for her sister’s retort, but Arya just blinks tiredly and peeks under the shawl to look at her baby. Sansa glares at her husband for the callous remark on Arya’s behalf. 

Sandor rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches up in a smirk. “Come on, boy,” Sandor calls through the open door, and when no one walks through, he lumbers out and back in again, pushing a bleary-eyed Gendry ahead of him. “Show him,” he tells Arya.

Gendry shuffles past Sansa without so much as a “milady” and kneels down beside the bed. Arya pulls back the shawl to reveal the tiny dark head, and Gendry leans in closer, holding his breath. They talk softly together, ignoring everyone and everything but their new little family.

Sandor steps out the hallway and motions for Sansa to accompany him. He yawns and gazes down at his at his son, cozy in his blankets and Sansa’s arms. “Been a long few days for you,” he murmurs, then takes Eddor from Sansa. The boy snuggles into the thick wool shirt covering his father’s massive chest.

“Mother will cry herself to sleep every night for a month,” Sansa whispers. “If Gendry weren’t Robert’s bastard, Arya could marry him and petition the Queen to legitimize both him and the baby, but the last thing that Her Grace wants is two newly-minted Baratheon heirs running around. Not while she is barely keeping the South from rebelling while her dragons are fighting up here.” She lets out a breath that feels like the first time she has exhaled in days. “And Robb will be furious, of course.”

“Like you said, it won’t matter if the White Walkers kill us all first,” Sandor responds grimly.

Sansa purses her lips in frustration. She wants to discuss the matter with Sandor further, but before she can say more, Gendry comes out with Nymeria. “They are sleeping,” he says quietly. The heavy-footed blacksmith is somehow almost floating. “She’s beautiful. Both of them are,” he adds almost dreamily.

Sandor snorts and gives Eddor back to Sansa. He claps his hands on Gendry’s shoulders and steers the young man and the direwolf down the hall toward the kitchens. “Come, boy, I’ll get you a cup of wine or two. Leave the women to it.”

Sansa rocks Eddor for a while out in the cool dark corridor before returning to her chambers. As she walks in, she sees that Arya has awakened again and is trying to nurse the baby. She watches them for a while and thinks back to the first hazy hours after her own baby was born. “What will you name her?” she finally says aloud.

“What do you think I should name her?” Arya asks, grimacing as she adjusts the baby’s mouth on her breast.

Sansa thinks for a moment. “Lyanna?” she suggests. She loves family names, and their aunt was deserving of a fate better than she received. 

Arya visibly recoils at the idea. A streak of her old defiance flashes across her face. “Ugh, no way. You know what happened to _her_.”

They had learned the truth of Jon’s parentage through one of the men Father had fought with during Robert’s Rebellion. Mother’s letter reporting the finding had been streaked with what could only have been tears, and Sansa had cried all night for her father and Jon and the poor young mother who had died never knowing her son. 

Sansa sighs, but she doesn’t argue. “Just sleep tonight,” she says instead, refraining from mentioning how much Arya will need to rest in the coming days, when the baby awakens every hour to eat. “Decide on a name tomorrow.”

Arya nods without taking her eyes off the dozing infant. She holds the child close to her face and whispers something that Sansa does not hear.

*_*_*_*_*

A month later, Sansa watches Arya and Gendry from across the frigid yard as they fuss over a well-bundled baby Joanna Snow. Sansa had raised her eyebrows the first time she heard the name Arya had chosen, but Arya had cursed and yelled that if she were going to have a bastard, the bastard would be named after the most infamous Northern one of all. Sandor had guffawed coarsely, and Gendry had just covered his face and tried to blend in with the tapestries. It had seemed like something that mattered at the time, but now that the White Walkers are beginning to show up as far south as the forests surrounding Hornwood and Jon has sent word that he urgently needs all the relief that the lords can provide, Sansa is embarrassed that she ever cared at all.

Beyond her sister’s family, the guards at the gate are talking to a cluster of ten or twelve wretched smallfolk who have just arrived at Hornwood, clearly having recently fled some overrun northern village. Two of the men pull a small cart loaded with tools. This is a good sign -- it means that there might be a few skilled laborers here that Sansa can put to work, and not just more mouths to feed.

Sansa turns and walks toward the stables, wrapping her fur-lined cape around herself. The Skagosi warriors are saddling up their shaggy ponies with the help of Hornwood castlefolk. Sandor is there too, standing head and shoulders above the tallest of the islanders, appearing even larger than usual, draped in his heavy grey cloak. He hands a packet of letters and maps to a solemn-looking Rickon.

As Sansa approaches, she overhears more of their conversation. “They are taking too long. We need to leave,” Rickon complains in his strangely accented Common Tongue, glancing coldly toward Arya and Gendry. Rickon has unbraided his hair, and the long auburn ringlets whip around his face in the icy breeze. “The winds are rising. If we don’t make it over the mountain pass before dark --”

“I may not have grown up in the North, but I’ve learned all I need to know about freezing my arse off in the middle of the night,” Sandor interrupts him.

“You know it is more than that,” Rickon growls testily. “Everything past Winterfell has fallen to the White Walkers. We know that they lurk in this very forest. My party can only travel safely during the day.”

“I’m aware,” Sandor hisses. “My men and I have been keeping the road clear of wights for all the armies headed north -- and for the smallfolk fleeing south,” he adds, gesturing toward the clump of refugees at the other end of the yard. “Not to mention that we feed and house every one of them who staggers through the gates.” He lurches away without acknowledging Sansa and begins berating a stable boy for sitting idly while others are scurrying about to help the warriors prepare for their journey.

Sansa wonders, not for the first time, whether Sandor’s anger comes from the fact that the fighters do not appreciate how critical his duties are to the war effort, or whether he wishes he were one of the men at the battle front, as he would have been when he was younger and more expendable. Perhaps he’s just scared, like she is.

Rickon seems unperturbed by his brother-in-law’s outburst, and he gazes at Sansa coolly. Sansa’s heart aches for the brother she once bounced on her lap until he doubled over in fits of laughter, but she knows that boy is lost for all time. In his place stands a warrior who long ago killed off his ability to display a vulnerable feeling like fear or love. _He had to, in order to survive in such a harsh place by himself,_ she thinks, but she is glad that he has managed to stay alive, at least. 

“Arya, Gendry,” Rickon calls, summoning the lovers. “Your mounts are ready.” He points to a pair of sturdy ponies laden with supplies that Sandor is now personally inspecting.

“Right,” Arya rasps, her voice hoarse as she marches toward Sansa. “Hurry up, Gendry.”

Gendry sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. His eyes are red and he blinks rapidly as he stumbles in the direction of the horses. 

Arya doesn’t look into Sansa’s face as she places Joanna in Sansa’s arms. She kisses the baby’s forehead with the softness of a whisper and adjusts the blanket over her tiny body. Joanna smacks her lips and squirms in Sansa’s arms. Then Arya whips up and rubs her eyes with the back of her gloved hand and turns away.

Sansa’s stomach churns. She and Arya have been talking about this plan for weeks, but now that the departure is here, panic licks her insides. Impulsively, she grabs her sister’s arm. “Don’t go with them, not yet,” Sansa pleads. “You’ve hardly healed from labor, and Joanna needs you. The White Walkers --”

“The White Walkers will kill everyone and turn Joanna into a blue eyed man-eating freak,” Arya interrupts as she kicks the toe of her boot against the ground, looking away from Sansa and the baby. “Rickon and I are the best wargs Jon has. We’ve already killed dozens of wights with the wolves. I have to go to protect you,” she adds apologetically, finally setting her eyes on the bundled girl.

From behind them a pony whinnies and shakes its bridle. Rickon spits on the ground, grabbing the attentionof his sisters. He gazes stonily back and forth between them. “The weather will kill us before the wights do, if we don’t leave now. Make your decision. My men and I are leaving.” He hoists himself up onto his own mount and whistles to Shaggydog.

Sansa clutches Joanna close to her. Arya gulps air and twists away, then makes to launch herself onto her own horse. But she is still weak from giving birth, and she submits to allowing Sandor to lift her up onto the saddle.

“If I --if we don’t come back --” Arya murmurs tremulously. The baby starts crying, and Arya swallows her tears. “Make sure she can swing a sword,” she says to Sandor, who simply nods for once. “And teach her to stitch straight,” she says to Sansa, and that’s when Sansa bursts into ugly, coughing tears, and so does Gendry. Arya wipes her eyes with the back of her mitten and sighs hard.

The Skagosi warriors, most of whom speak a version of the Common Tongue so debased that they can't even communicate with the Hornwood castlefolk, look around uneasily as their horses stamp their hooves. Shaggydog howls and Nymeria joins him. Rickon alone amongst the Starks is dry-eyed, but he allows Sansa to approach and squeeze his hand. As she steps back, he nudges his horse into a trot. The rest of the party follows, not looking back. 

“Be careful,” Sansa screams as they ride through the gates. “I love you,” she calls to them. At first she thinks the don't hear her over the sound of the horse hooves churning the frozen earth, but then Arya raises her hand in farewell.

Joanna is wailing in earnest now, and soon her tiny cries are joined by Eddor’s squall as Sansa’s maid bustles across the yard toward her and Sandor. “Forgive me, my lady, but he is distraught. He’s not hungry, he just --”

“Can’t you see her hands are full? Hand him to me,” Sandor demands, and the maid cowers as Sandor snatches the boy from her. Eddor’s screaming diminishes to irritated grunts.

“Thank you,” Sansa says to the maid in an effort to smooth over Sandor’s rough demeanor. “Please find out if any of the smallfolk who just arrived are able to serve as a wet nurse for Joanna.” If there is no one in the new group, she will have to feed both babies on her own, a prospect she certainly does not relish. The maid excuses herself, and Sansa and Sandor find themselves alone amidst the commotion in their yard, but for the two squirming children.

“Come, wife, I’ll take you back to our chambers. It’s too cold out here for them,” he says, and begins walking in the direction of the inner keep. A part of Sansa wants to follow him, to hole up with the little ones and Sandor and bolt the door shut until someone else fights off the White Walkers and spring finally comes. But she knows that winter might never end if she and others like her choose that path.

“Wait,” Sansa says, sniffling away the last of her tears. “There is something I want to do first. I would have your company, if you are willing.”

She leads Sandor through the crowded yard and around the turret where the ravens are kept, beyond the wattle and daub shelters that the castlefolk are building for the refugees, and into Hornwood’s godswood, which is really just a copse of tall shrubs with a weirwood tree in the middle. In spite of the flurry of activity in the castle, it is quiet here but for the rustling leaves overhead. The tree’s face weeps with red sap, and Sansa knows somehow that the person who carved it there once suffered through the kind of pain and fear she feels now. 

“I thought you didn’t pray anymore,” Sandor says as he rubs little Eddor’s back, looking up into the crimson foliage.

Sansa approaches the ivory tree trunk. “I didn’t. I don’t,” she corrects. But something is drawing her here, more than fear for herself or Sandor or the children. She shifts baby Joanna onto one arm and touches the sap with her free hand. 

She wonders whether she will ever see her sister or her brothers again. She wonders whether Sandor will disappear on one of his expeditions and ride back through the gates as a wight on an undead horse. She wonders if it is too much to hope for her son and her niece, or anyone else on the continent for that matter, to live through the winter.

She feels Sandor’s warm arm as he wraps it around her shoulders and hears her little boy’s sleepy snuffles. She may not have this life for much longer, but at this moment, even in her grief, she knows that it is still more beautiful than any story or song.

As if reading her thoughts, Sandor says softly, “The gods have already given me more than anything I ever hoped for.” He leans down and kisses the top of her head, just as he did in the forest after they escaped King’s Landing together, when he thought she was asleep.

“And me as well,” Sansa agrees, her love for her family overwhelming her fear. “Let’s fight to keep what we have.”

*_*_*_*_*

[the end]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I borrowed the name baby’s name, Eddor, from one of my own previous mini-fics in my collection of drabbles ”Seven and Two”. You could maybe think of that one as the much later sequel to this one.
> 
> Because this fic was kinda dark, I thought it appropriate to end with the SanSan aspect wrapped up, but to keep open-ended the omnicidal zombie vs. dragon magic series uberplot (since that hasn’t, ya know, concluded yet). I mean, don’t worry -- in my head everybody comes out of this alive and happy. I just figured I would leave it to GRRM to write the whole war that has to happen between here and there.
> 
> Thank you for reading this. --SA


End file.
